


Deflowered

by ever_enthralled



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Aftercare, Age Difference, Car Sex, Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Loss of Virginity, Multiple Orgasms, Praise Kink, Squirting, Swearing, Underage Drinking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, reader is marcos sister
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24538327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ever_enthralled/pseuds/ever_enthralled
Summary: Zeke gets more than he bargained for when he agrees to teach one of his little brother’s friends about the birds and the bees.
Relationships: Zeke (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Reader
Comments: 191
Kudos: 1361





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this has the potential to turn into something chaptered, but i don't know yet. also, it's filthy.

Zeke frowns at the light knock that sounds on his door, eyes flicking away from the TV screen as he grunts out a short, “Yeah,” expecting to see his brother step into his room. Hopefully, Eren just needs a break from his friends and isn’t here to tell him that someone is sick off beer and pizza or slammed their head into the fireplace.

“Uh, Zeke?”

Except, that’s not Eren’s voice.

Instead, _you_ stand in his doorway, shifting from one foot to the other, arms wrapped around your torso, chewing on your bottom lip. You look nervous, but then again, you always have seemed a bit skittish.

Still, it’s troubling, and Zeke straightens up from where he’s sitting on his bed. “Something wrong?”

You shake your head, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “No, I just… Can I talk to you about something?”

Odd.

Zeke is hesitant, mostly because he doesn’t know much about you despite you hanging out with Eren as often as you do. You’re a senior. Your brother is Marco. You can form complete sentences. That’s about all that’s worth knowing.

“Uh, yeah, of course.” He lowers the volume on the TV, puts the remote down on his nightstand and gives you his full attention.

Walking a little further into the bedroom, you close the door behind yourself then lean against it. Zeke tilts his head to the side as he tries to predict what you could possibly need from him at midnight while all your friends are downstairs having a good time with alcohol and videogames and whatever else they’ve gotten into.

“Okay, so, um, this is kind of…” You swallow hard and run fingers through your hair. Even from where he’s sitting, Zeke can see that you’re trembling. Something has you spooked.

Brows furrowing, Zeke leans forward over his knees and asks seriously, “Did something happen downstairs?” If something did, it’s his house, therefore his responsibility. 

“What?” You frown back at him. “No, no, everything is fine. Everyone’s having a great time.”

Then what could you possibly want?

“Alright, I’m just gonna…” you breathe in and out deeply, then plaster a crooked smile on your delicate face that only proves your apprehension further. “I need advice.”

Zeke has to look up slightly to keep eye contact, and he nods to urge you forward. It’s strange, you coming to him for anything, really because your conversations are nearly non-existent and when they do take place, it’s usually about school or Eren, though you did have a rather pleasant chat about classic American literature once not too long ago.

Zeke has a feeling you’re not in his room to talk books, though, and as you stumble through your words, he watches you closely, picking up on any and all signs of discomfort.

Eyes are wide—“So, feel free to, like, kick me out of your house or whatever if this makes you uncomfortable—” flush creeping up from under your top, painting your neck and cheeks a darker shade—“I just didn’t really know who else to go to—” hands tremble as you wring your fingers.

You’re terrified. It’s actually kind of cute, and Zeke can’t help the way his mouth pulls up on one side.

“Just say it,” he tells you, tries to keep from sounding irritated because he’s not—curious more than anything at this point—but it still comes out as more of a demand than an invitation.

You regard him timidly, nod to yourself, then clear your throat and begin in a voice slightly more confident. “There’s a guy I like—” _Oh, god_ —“And he’s in college, and I’m pretty sure he likes me, but I know that he’s gonna want to do things like—”

“Have sex,” Zeke supplies, no doubt setting your face on fire.

You’re a little breathless when you say, “Yeah,” but don’t flinch, stand your ground.

So, you’ve come for tips. He’s got to admit, you’ve got balls. This has the potential to be an exceedingly awkward conversation, and there’s always the chance Zeke could just tell you to leave. You’re risking a lot coming up here to ask for his help, mostly your own pride, but you don’t need to worry about that.

He has to wonder, though, “Why me?”

Shrugging narrow shoulders, you leave your place on the door and sit on the very corner of his mattress. “Don’t really have anyone else to go to. The girls are even more hopeless than me, and the guys would never shut up. Plus, Marco would probably faint if he found out. You, though... I figure you probably have some, uh, experience under your belt.”

Zeke smirks. _Not the only thing I have under my belt._

“So, what, you need pointers?”

“Uhh,” your own smile is less forced now but still self-conscious.

Zeke doesn’t give you time to answer the rest of the way, just dives straight in. “Are you a virgin?” He’s pretty sure he already knows the answer, but there’s always the possibility of you just having really bad past experiences and wanting to get help to fix it, make it better for this new guy.

“Yeah,” you answer without hesitation.

“So, what do you need from me? You know how it all works, right?” He snickers, and you roll your eyes.

“Yes, I know how it all works.”

“You just want to know how to make it feel good then,” he states, and it could just be his mind playing tricks on him, but Zeke is pretty sure your eyes darken as he says this.

He’d be lying if he said this wasn’t stroking his ego—without really knowing anything about him, you’ve just assumed he has enough experience and/or knowledge to be an authority on this subject, on sex, that he knows enough to help you, and you want him to help you. It’s cute. More than cute actually because it’s not like Zeke hasn’t _noticed_ you before; Eren has a few different female friends, and while none of the teenage girls are trolls, you’re probably the most attractive. 

Gaze traveling from your face, Zeke follows the lines of your figure down, down down—over your torso, to your thighs, clad in a pair of tight denim shorts that barely cover more than underwear does (and why the fuck are you even wearing those, it’s December). No reason to complain, though, so much smooth skin on display—welcoming—and Zeke can feel himself stirring in his own jeans.

“How old are you?” He asks, quickly formulating a plan. “I know you’re a senior, but—”

“I turned nineteen in August,” you tell him. “Some stuff happened and... Anyway. Nineteen.” 

“Well, in that case,” Zeke pins you with a dark stare, keeps his voice low when he asks, “Would you like a demonstration?”

Your lips part, and Zeke actually watches as your pupils dilate. He’s almost positive if he were to look close enough, he’d be able to see the racing pulse in your neck.

You don’t answer straight away, but you also don’t rear back or start swearing at him which means you’re considering it. Zeke tries to keep his face impassive as he waits, just holds eye contact, watches the gears turn in your head as you have what Zeke assumes is an internal moral debate. There is a lot for you to consider—not only is he one of your good friends’ older brothers, but he is considerably older at twenty-seven. And what will happen if someone finds out? Zeke couldn’t give two fucks, only truly being worried about the legality of it, but your friends would probably look at you differently if they ever put the pieces together.

“All you have to say is no,” he assures you because, even though the more he thinks about it, the more he wants it, if you don’t, that’s it. Case closed.

“No, I—” you finally look down at your lap, and Zeke can see that the tips of your ears are also flushed red. “If you don’t mind, that would be,” you swallow thickly, “That would be helpful.”

It takes some effort to keep his grin from turning completely salacious, but in truth, at hearing you agree, Zeke is all at once ready—to fuck, to teach, to show you just how good sex can feel, how good he can make you feel. Oh, he is going to wreck you.

“You’re sure?” You nod, pouty lips tugging into a shy little grin. “Okay.”

Zeke stands then, grabs the remote to switch the TV to a music channel as he locks his bedroom door. Eren rarely bothers him when his friends are over, but just to be on the safe side.

“What’ve you done so far?” He asks.

“In terms of sex?”

“Mhm.”

You shift before moving up a little more on the mattress. “I’ve given head a few times. And I—I mean, I touch myself fairly regularly.”

Cock twitching, Zeke groans internally. _That_ is a lovely thought. He pads back over, gestures for you to slide even further up, and you do without protest. At least you don’t mind being told what to do, it seems.

“Has anyone gone down on you before?” His voice is calm even as he joins you on the mattress, wastes no time in stripping his shirt off and grins when your eyes widen.

“N-no. No one has,” you utter, and Zeke is pretty sure your mouth is watering. “Wow, I didn’t realize…”

“Hm?”

Snickering, you shake your head, reach for the hem of your own shirt. “Didn’t know you were hiding a body like that under all the flannels you wear.”

All he offers is a shrug and a thanks, not wanting to sound cocky or beam at the praise. He looks good, and he knows it. The expression of awe on your face is better than any other flattery, anyway.

It changes to one of insecurity, however, when you rid yourself of your top, nervous eyes flicking to Zeke then away again a few times at rapid-fire speed. You have no reason to be worried, but he can remember what it was like to be your age, always concerned with what other people thought, what other people saw. It’s enough to give anyone a complex. You shiver when Zeke traces fingers down your side, and just to ease any anxiety, he tells you, “You’re beautiful,” which isn’t really his style, but you need the affirmation.

The effect is instantaneous. Your expression changes again, from insecurity to determination, and Zeke feels your dainty hands on his waist, urging him closer. He obliges, curving over you and dipping to catch your lips with his. There’s still some trepidation, but you seem comfortable with kissing—why wouldn’t you be?—and even open your mouth slightly, allowing Zeke to lick into it. Not too much tongue, not like the boys you’ve probably been with, just enough to tease.

You let out a tiny noise when he pushes you gently back against the pillows at the top of the bed, uses the same hand to follow the elastic of your bra to its clasp. Breaking away just enough to speak, Zeke’s words are husky, “I’ll ask again, are you—”

“I’m sure,” you nod against him, arch enough to give his hand some room as he twists the dark material expertly, and when it falls away and loosens, Zeke can feel your exhale against his lips.

Slipping the scanty article off over your arms, you do your best not to go back to looking unsure and self-conscious—Zeke can see the effort—but it’s there in your large eyes, in your tense jaw, even as you lay back.

Sitting on his heels, Zeke finds himself temporarily dumbstruck, looks at the mostly naked body before him with absolute reverence as he finds that you are a work of fucking art. Skin like satin under his hands, dotted with constellations of stray freckles. A scar here, a birthmark there. Supple, soft, responsive. You have goosebumps before Zeke even starts paying attention to your breasts, perfect cups with darker nipples that elicit the most beautiful breathy moan when he softly catches one between two fingers. He rolls the hardened bud gently, not applying too much pressure as he leans down and drags his lips down your neck, stopping to nip and kiss, all the while hoping for another one of those little noises. He is rewarded when he sucks at a small patch of flesh right at the junction of your neck and shoulder, pinches just a little harder so that your whimper turns into a whine. Zeke leaves a bruise, partially to have the satisfaction of knowing it's there tomorrow, but also just because his brain is getting a little foggy.

Sliding down your squirming body, Zeke swirls his tongue around the other neglected bud, pulls away to blow lightly on it and smirks when you shudder. He sucks at the flesh, teases with light grazes of his teeth until you’re practically undulating beneath him.

“You doing okay?” He breathes, and you just nod quickly. “Stop me if you get uncomfortable,” Zeke reminds you as he begins to work at your shorts. He unbuttons them easily, and you lift your hips so that he can tug them down. “Panties too?”

“Might as well.”

You’re shaking again, but Zeke knows it’s because of anticipation now rather than fear, chuckles low in his throat when you give another full body shudder. Tossing your little shorts on the floor, he moves to kiss you again, fingers trailing down over your neck, your chest, dipping into your naval, then, light as a feather, he traces over the skin between your hips, smooth and untouched.

Zeke pauses to situate himself better by your side, makes sure he has a good vantage point to watch your face as his hand dips down further. At first, he just teases your lips, soft and sensitive judging by the way your hips jerk. He can actually feel heat radiating from your core, and you spread your legs a little further, a silent way of asking for more, for him to touch you where you want him to.

Your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks, and it looks like you’re trying to murmur something as your lips move.

Zeke is aching in the confines of his jeans, hard and dripping precum into his boxers, but that can wait. It’s going to wait. Angling his mouth down to speak into your ear, he questions in a sultry tone, “Are you ready to play?”

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

He hums in his throat before licking the shell of your ear. “Where do you want me to touch you?”

“I—” your legs open wider, and Zeke pinches your puffy little lips together, tugs gently so that you let out another whimper. “My… Please.” You’re blushing again, and Zeke can easily guess that you’re uncomfortable vocalizing what you want. Or maybe you just don’t like being vulgar. Whatever the case, you’ll have to learn eventually.

“Do you want to feel me in your pussy?”

“Yes, yes, ple—”

“Say it, then. Ask for it.”

Your eyes open again to meet his, pupils blown so wide, they almost completely take over colored irises as you murmur, “Please touch my pussy. Please pla—play with me.”

Zeke groans, low and throaty. All these please’s are getting to him, so polite, and desperate, and submissive. Fuck, you’re such a sub. He is about to have too much fun with this.

Pressing his forehead to yours, Zeke opens his mouth at the same time you do, one finger slipping between your folds and immediately being met with—

“God dammit, you’re wet,” he states, teasing around your hole and gathering fluid on the pad of his finger before moving up to rub your clit.

“Oh, fuck,” you swear, bucking at the contact. Zeke is careful not to rub too hard or too fast, doesn’t want to overstimulate (yet). No, all he wants is to turn you into a writhing mess, shaking limbs, begging for more.

He kisses you again, though you can barely focus on his lips, your own parting with silent pleas. Zeke stops momentarily, and you open heavy eyes just in time to see him bring his finger to his mouth and suck your juices from it. It’s pleasant, sweeter than most girls he’s been with, but still natural.

“Are you comfortable with me going down on you?” He figures he’ll ask, just to be on the safe side. You nod mutely, gaze following him as he moves to grab a pillow from behind you, commands, “Up,” and places it beneath your hips before getting comfortable between your legs.

The first swipe of his tongue is slow and deliberate, all the way from your entrance to your clit, and Zeke can feel your thighs tense. He does this a few more times, flicks over the bundle of nerves, then shoulders your legs apart further, spreads your lips, and gets started.

You tremble and moan and gasp around Zeke, eventually tangle fingers in his hair as he plunges his tongue inside of you.

_“Oh my god oh my god.”_

He licks and sucks at soft tissue, teases your clit again as he reaches up and, “I’m going to add a finger.”

“God, yes, please.”

Zeke chuckles, circles your entrance for a moment before slowly sliding said finger in digit by digit. He usually isn’t so big on communicating with partners—not that he can’t do it or hates to, it’s just never really been necessary. But here you are, inexperienced, and trusting, and pleading with him. Telling you exactly what he’s going to do to you is actually fun.

You’re tight, but your own lubrication makes it easy to slide inside. He gives a few slow pumps before picking up the pace and sucking on your clit again, and Zeke can actually feel your muscles relax around him. You’re starting to make a mess, dripping down onto his sheets, and he wonders just how wet he can get you. Will you drip? Will you leak? Will you squirt?

“Ready for a second?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” He speaks without really thinking.

You moan when he retracts his hand, repeat and correct yourself, “Yes, please.” What a natural. 

Smiling, Zeke pushes back in with two fingers, watches as your face twists for just a moment as you get used to the intrusion. If no one else has touched you like this then that probably means, “Is this the most you’ve had in your little pussy?”

“ _Mm_ , yes.”

“Oh, baby,” setting another rhythm, Zeke trails kisses over to your thigh. “I’m gonna take my time stretching you, then.”

Something that sounds suspiciously like a snicker makes its way out of you, broken up by gasps, and Zeke glances up at your face to find you smiling. “Why, are you— _ohh_ —are you big?”

There is a dull throb in his cock as it somehow grows impossibly harder. He isn’t one to brag, as he’s not in fucking high school anymore (and it was tacky then too), but, “I’m not small.” And he’s not.

“Mm— _okay_ , just keep—” Zeke crooks his fingers, easily hits your g-spot, and watches as your eyes shoot open. “Holy god, keep doing that _please_.”

Zeke laughs quietly but does as you ask, bending back down to make use of his mouth again. He adds one more finger after a little while, working you open thoroughly, nice and slow as you writhe, eventually grinding yourself down on him.

“Now, I have a very important question for you,” he starts, slowing his motions a bit and gaining your attention. You peer down at him with hazy eyes, cheeks flushed, bottom lip red from biting down on it so hard. “Do you want to come on my fingers or on my cock?”

“I—..." your throat bobs, hands dropping from Zeke’s hair back to the sheets. “I—...” You can’t even form a coherent thought, knees bent, feet planted on the mattress as you rock back and forth, fucking yourself on his fingers, and Jesus Christ, if you don’t make a decision, he’s going to have to make one for you. 

Zeke massages that spot inside you, and the noises your wet pussy is making are completely obscene, seem to echo in his room. He thinks, probably with the right stimulation—

"I'll take your inability to speak as an answer," he says, more to himself than to you. With his other hand, Zeke reaches up and begins to very quickly rub your clit, a ruthless back and forth that has you biting your cheek to keep from screaming, though a shrill squeak still escapes followed by an extremely worried, "Shit, wait, it feels like I'm gonna—" but Zeke doesn't pay it any mind, too distracted by the sudden gush of fluid from your body, his ministrations—almost slapping at this point—sending droplets spraying over the bed and even his face. 

"Oh my God," Your voice is panicked, and you look at Zeke's now dripping form with wide eyes. "I am so sorry. Fuck, I can't believe I just—

"Squirted," Zeke chuckles, taking off his glasses to set them on the far side of the bed. He levels a very amused gaze at you, all cocked eyebrows and satisfied smirk, "Just like I was hoping you would." 

You are an almost alarming shade, but your chest is still heaving like you ran a marathon. 

"But, it felt like I was peeing," you frown. 

Shrugging his shoulders, Zeke takes a casual tone when he says, "I mean, if you want to get into technicalities, you sort of were, but it's different. You've really never heard of it before?"

You shake your head, watch as he uses one hand to grab his formerly discarded shirt to wipe himself off. "Female ejaculation is the scientific term, I believe. When your g-spot is stimulated the right way—" he wriggles his fingers which are still inside you, pulling a groan from your throat—" the skene glands produce a sort of fluid that mixes with urine in your bladder. You feel the need to pee and _voila:_ ejaculation." 

You let your head fall back against pillows, blink up at the ceiling, and tug your lower lip between your teeth. Zeke can tell you’re still heavily contemplating this revelation, probably stuck somewhere between mortification and enlightenment. He sighs through his nose, finally pulls his fingers out of your now sopping hole, then crawls up over her body to look straight into your doll-like eyes. 

"I promise you have nothing to worry about," he reassures you. "Most guys find it hot. I certainly do." You somehow manage to blush even more, but Zeke can see the corners of your lips turn up. "It's a whole category on porn sites. In fact, you, my dear, could probably make some pretty decent money showing off." He tweaks one of your nipples, and the way your back arches and your mouth drops open only proves his point. "You are very fun to look at."

Hazy orbs finally seem to focus on Zeke, first on his face then traveling lower, and he figures it's the endorphins that make you say, "So are you."

He smirks, lowers himself enough to place a teasing kiss on your lips, dark and swollen, then murmurs against them, "Shall we continue?" 

You nod immediately, thread fingers through his hair and utter a soft, "Yes, please," and Zeke can only respond with a groan before sliding off you to quickly rid himself of his jeans. He can feel your heavy gaze on him, following his hands as he shoves his pants down and steps out of them. Zeke chances one glance up at you before tugging off his boxers, tries not to let it go to his head when your eyes grow at the sight of his cock—above average in length and with a girth that has earned him quite a bit of praise over the years. A substantial amount of precum has already coated the tip, making the flushed head glisten. 

"Like what you see?" He only halfway jokes. 

You look like you’re about to start drooling, but you’re surprisingly casual when you challenge, "Should I?" Which, okay, fair point considering you’ve never actually taken a dick in your pussy before. 

"How about you suck me off for a sec and figure it out yourself?"

Eyes darken until they're almost black and then you’re wrapping your dainty fingers around Zeke's wrist and pulling him back down on the bed. You move quickly to lie between his legs, and he wonders if you’re running off adrenaline or genuinely want to do this. It doesn't matter anymore as Zeke's cock is suddenly engulfed in your very warm, very wet mouth. You dive down first, spreading as much saliva as you can, then move back up to suckle at his head. Zeke lets out a low, throaty groan, hands very quickly finding the back of your head, just sitting there rather than guiding, but he does mumble a few praises that seem to encourage you—"That's it, baby, just like that… Fuck, good girl. _Good girl_." That last bit has you moaning around his length, the vibrations so intense they seem to tickle his spine, and that thought crosses Zeke's mind again: _such a sub_. 

You have clearly done this before, and even though you had admitted to it earlier, Zeke still wasn't expecting you to be as skilled as you are. You start a nice rhythm, bobbing on the first couple inches of his cock and using your hands to reach further. Your tongue swipes the underside, stimulation to his frenulum making Zeke release a short, _"Hah,"_ as he jerks, and then— _and then_ —you take as much as you can. Zeke feels the tip of his dick hit the back of your throat, and you manage to run your tongue back and forth at the root in a truly depraved way, big eyes opening to peer up at him, and Zeke actually has to push you off because both his gut and his balls begin to tighten, and there is no way he's going to come without actually fucking you. 

Your lips are even more swollen than before. Your cheeks are rosy. And there is a line of spit dripping down your chin that you quickly wipe away with the back of your hand. 

"Holy fuck," Zeke huffs. It's the only warning you get before he's tugging you back up and twisting your bodies so he's on top again. 

You grin smugly, mutter a quiet, "I at least know how to do that." 

"Damn right, you do." 

Zeke has had many a blowjob in his time, and that one is easily in his top five, boosted even higher by that look you had given him—glistening eyes with a mouth full of cock—and holy shit, Zeke might be a ruined man. He gives himself away, shoving his face into your neck to bite and suck and mumble, "God dammit, I can't wait to fuck you," as if he's been wanting to for years, when really, the thought hadn't even crossed his mind until tonight, not explicitly at least. 

"Do it then," you all but whine, scratching nails down his back, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to bring Zeke to his senses temporarily so that he can rummage through his nightstand and grab the bottle of lube he keeps inside. He fishes around for a condom as well, not particularly keen on using them, and it really will be a shame to be even a little desensitized with you, but Zeke knows it's the safest bet, would sort of ruin things if he ended up getting you pregnant. 

He rolls the latex on over his cock before popping the cap on the lube, and you look at him, slightly confused, probably thinking something along the lines of _do we really need that_ , and he answers the unasked question with hooded eyes, "Just to be on the safe side," lathers his fingers and rubs your soaking pussy with them, really just adding to the mess. "I want to make sure this is good for you."

He slicks himself up next, brow furrowing with just a few pumps, then carefully lines himself up with your entrance. "Are you ready?" 

"Yes, yes," you assure, legs spreading even further, and that's really the only confirmation Zeke needs before he pushes into you. 

His cockhead breeches that first ring of muscle, making you both moan, and Zeke typically isn't all that vocal, but fuck, you feel so good already, so, so good. 

Still, he waits for you to adjust some before sliding in further, keeps an eye on your face which begins to pinch the more he gives you, so he stops again. You breathe sharply, clutch the sheets, then begin to wriggle your hips some in an attempt to get used to being this full even though Zeke isn't even halfway in yet. 

"Okay," you shudder, "Keep going." 

And he does, moving slowly, reveling in the sounds you’re releasing, in the way your body is already arching, the way your pussy stretches and makes room for his cock. When he's finally as far in as he can be without punching a fucking hole in your cervix, you let out a throaty, "Ugh," followed by, "I've never been…"

"This full?" Zeke supplies with an already fuck-drunk grin. You nod, swivel your hips again, and Zeke leans forward to mouth just under your ear. "Just wait." 

His pace is slow at first, still letting you get used to him, knows the intrusion is foreign in your virgin pussy—fuck, you’re a virgin, and that's never been a _thing_ for Zeke, but thinking about it now brings back that heat in his gut. 

Once you start moving with him, meeting his thrusts as best you can, Zeke speeds up, fucking into you harder so that you hiss out a long, _"Yesss."_

It's good, so fucking good. You’re still tight but absolutely drenched, enough that Zeke actually slips out a couple times, but it takes no effort to slide right back into your heat. Cloudy eyes roll into the back of your head at the same time you grab his shoulders, nails biting into flesh and spurning Zeke on, and you’re still moving against him, harder and harder, and he has to wonder, "Do you wanna ride me, baby?" 

You don’t hesitate save for your already heavy limbs weighing you down, but you maneuver so that Zeke can lie on his back and you can straddle him. He holds his dick, rubs his head against your folds and once again sending droplets flying. You bite your lip and lower yourself, and Zeke thinks _this is good. She'll be able to set the pace this way_ , but he grips your hips without even thinking and begins moving you up and down on his length, not even giving you a chance. 

You moan, though, lean forward to kiss Zeke roughly, bite his lower lip then start riding him, bouncing on his dick as if you’ve done this before, then have the audacity to blink up at him innocently and slur, "Like this?" 

"Yeah, just like that," he nods, tries not to focus on the lewd noises your bodies are making, the undeniable squelch of your pussy sucking his cock into it because if he thinks too hard, if he focuses, Zeke will absolutely blow his load right here and now. "Like, that, fuck, so good. You're being so good for me…" 

Zeke has very quickly discovered your praise kink as you mewl and move faster, harder, faster, harder, then seat yourself completely and rock. Zeke can see exactly when you realize it's the perfect way for his dick to massage your g-spot because your eyes get wide again and lock with his like you’re scared. 

But still, you rock, and Zeke reaches forward and uses his thumb to rub tight circles around your clit, commands, "Come on, baby, come on. Squirt all over me again. I know you can."

You surge back and forth like your life depends on it, fingers gripping his shoulders tight enough to hurt, then you whimper and release, and Zeke can feel your juices pour over his pelvis, soaking him and the bedding beneath, and yeah, you really could make a fucking career out of this because it is—you are—intoxicating.

The messiness of it all is what ends up sending Zeke over the edge, and he pounds up into you as he climaxes, lifting your trembling body up and down as he milks himself dry inside of you. His mouth hangs open in a silent scream, and when he finally stops moving you, you fall forward onto his chest, both of you trying to catch your breath. Zeke rubs circles on your lower back, just around two dimples, and it must tickle a little because you squirm halfheartedly, causing both of you to let out quiet whines. 

Pulse beginning to slow, Zeke can feel his eyes growing heavy. He can't fall asleep, though, has to ignore that urge because—"I'm not done with you just yet."

"Hm?" You don’t look up at him, but he can feel the flutter of your eyelashes, as if you’re blinking at the wall. 

"I said I'm not done." Zeke taps you, a silent request for you to move, and you lean to the side to fall on the mattress. You look… Well, you look like you just got fucked. Standing on weak legs, Zeke paces over to the trash can in the corner of his room to dispose of the condom, tying it off and dropping it in, then goes back to bed. You watch him with half-closed eyes. Your chest is still dark with the sex flush, nipples perky, and you spread your legs without a second thought as Zeke settles between them. He can feel you watching him but only until he starts going down on you again. 

"Oh, fuck, _whyy…?"_

He flicks your clit with his tongue over and over, making you buck your hips, an almost perfect counter rhythm to his efforts. 

"Because," he stops to suck a patch of skin just under the junction of your pelvis and thigh. "I still wanna give you a real orgasm."

"But— _mm…_ "

He chuckles through his nose before lavishing more attention on that little bundle of nerves, engorged and beautiful, and you let out an adorable little, _"Ohh,"_ when Zeke rubs over it with his chin, his beard supplying a new sort of stimulation. _"Nn, Zeke, fuck."_ Slightly taken aback at how much he likes his name falling from your mouth, Zeke makes it his goal to hear it again. 

He laps at your dripping folds, sucks, barely grazes your clit with his teeth, and when you start to undulate beneath him, Zeke pins your hips to the bed with two large hands. It makes you whimper, but with one peek, thumbs spreading you open, Zeke can see the way your pussy _blossoms_ , like it's ready to be fucked again. Unfortunately, unlike you, Zeke has a refractory period, so he'll just have to work with what he's got. 

Shoving his tongue as far inside as he can, Zeke earns another moan of his own name, licks and slurps, then returns to your clit and focuses on nothing else until you’re gripping his hair and tensing all over. Your toes curl where your feet are planted on the bed, and Zeke glances up just in time to see your mouth form that perfect O shape. He pushes two fingers into you at exactly the right time, your muscles contracting all around them, and god damn, he wishes it was his cock. Another time. 

You ride out your orgasm, much different from your squirting, and when it's over after several seconds, you go mostly limp on the bed, unable to control the way your legs shake. Zeke smirks at his handiwork, pulls his fingers out and brushes over your sensitive clit one last time, causing you to jerk and glare playfully. 

"Hm," he lets out a dark chuckle, moves up to curl over you and catches you in a slow but messy kiss. "Consider yourself deflowered."

Shaky hands find the shaggy hair at the back of Zeke's head, and you take a deep breath in before murmuring a quiet, "Thank you." Your voice is low, like you’re sharing secrets. 

"My pleasure," he says honestly then stops and frowns. "Though, I've gotta say, I don't usually come that quickly." It wasn't like it was a quickshot or anything, but Zeke can last hours if he really needs to. Maybe this time was different because you had already squirted (twice), or maybe it's because…

Peering down at you, the small smile on your swollen lips, your hair a mess on Zeke's pillows, your soft body still spread out for the taking. Your nipples are just begging to be played with again, and even though he can't see it, your pussy, _fuck_ , that pussy—it’s beautiful, pink and puffy now, and Christ, you get so fucking wet. You made a mess of both Zeke and his bed, and he fucking loved every second of it. Having to change his sheets is a small price to pay for witnessing, being a part of, that. 

Yeah, that's probably why he came as fast as he did. 

"Honestly, I probably wouldn't have been able to handle it for much longer," you laugh airily. 

"Why, was it hurting?" Zeke is suddenly uncharacteristically worried.

"No, no," you shake your head. "You're just a _lot_. I'm not used to taking anything, um, that size.”

Zeke smirks, is curious as he presses his luck and utters a husky, "But you took it so well." He kisses the side of your neck. "You were so good." The other side. "So good for me, baby." Your lips. 

Your hands on either side of his face, you kiss him fiercely, even arch off the bed to get closer, and Zeke slides a hand under your back to help, pressing damp skin together. 

Zeke huffs against you, a voice in the back of his head quiet but firm— _not a good idea. Time to send her on her way_ —but you’re both stoned off post-orgasmic bliss, so he ignores it, just keeps tangling his tongue with yours. 

"Mm," you hum, push him lightly. "I need to rinse off. I'm getting sticky," you snicker. 

Rolling to the side, Zeke scrubs a hand down his face, remembers he is also not the cleanest, then sits up when something hits him. 

"We need to find a reason as to why you'd be showering in the first place." He's not particularly worried by it, but the fact stands. If you were to just go back downstairs with your friends with wet hair, it would be suspicious, almost as suspicious as going down there smelling like sex. 

You seem unperturbed, shrug your shoulders and say, "So, I got sick. Pizza and tequila don't mix well for me."

Zeke wrinkles his nose. "Fuck, they don't mix well for anyone." 

"Okay, so uh," you sit up and stretch, and Zeke's eyes are drawn to your body once again. It would look so good covered in more bruises. Bite marks. "I have a bag downstairs with leggings in it, which I need because—" you motion to your thighs, skin purple in places from Zeke's sucking, and even though they're more on the inside, they're dark enough to draw attention. 

"Well, if your shorts weren't so damn short…" he grumbles, earning an eye roll. "Let me wash my face and I'll go and grab your stuff."

Another blush tinges your cheeks, no doubt remembering the mess you made (how could you not when you’re sitting in it), and Zeke laughs lowly. 

There's a bathroom just across the hall, and Zeke checks to make sure no one else is upstairs before ushering you into it quickly, both of you basically prancing entirely naked. He shuts the door, starts the shower and rinses his body off in record time, then steps out for you to get in. 

"I'll be right back," he promises, tugging on sweats and nothing else. 

You lift an eyebrow, look surprisingly casual as you run fingers through your now wet hair, your form on full display for Zeke to admire. "You going downstairs like that?" 

"My house. Why not?" 

"I mean…" 

"If anyone asks, I'll just tell him you got vomit on me," he says with a sideways grin, already prepared for your offended, "Hey!" 

Zeke reaches under the spray to slap your ass, winks, then leaves. He gallops down the stairs, hears the ruckus from the den and walks in to find Eren and his friends (Mikasa, Armin, Jean, Marco, and Mina) crowded around the TV, a few open pizza boxes littering the coffee table and half full drinks too close to the edge for Zeke's liking. 

Marco and Jean are the only ones with game controllers, Smash Bros lit up on the screen, and Jean whines like the little bitch he is, "How the fuck do you get better at this fucking game the drunker you get?" 

Marco cackles before using Little Mac to annihilate King Dedede and blow him off the screen. 

"God dammit," the smaller kid pouts, then passes his controller to a grabby-handing Mina. 

Eren is the first to notice Zeke's sudden appearance, glances up at him with wide green eyes. "What's up? Fuck, are we being too loud?" 

"Nah, I haven't heard shit," Zeke says honestly. He has been, after all, a little distracted. "Uh," looking to Marco, Zeke tells him, "Your sister got sick upstairs. Said she has a bag down here."

Marco immediately pauses the new match, on his feet in a second. "Is she okay? Like, how sick are we talking?" 

"She said the pizza and tequila didn't mix well," Zeke says, taking on a face of disgust, and just like his big brother, Eren snorts, "Pizza and tequila don't mix well with anyone."

"She should be fine, though. She's up there showering now, sort of, uh," Zeke scratches the back of his head, smirks internally, "She sort of made a mess."

"Damn, she's probably ready to kill herself," Marco muses. "She hates throwing up."

He walks over to the pile of bags by the door and pulls a backpack from the top, then slings it over his shoulder. "Upstairs bathroom, you said?" 

Zeke nods but still tells him, "I can drop it off right outside. I imagine she wants to be left alone."

Marco pauses, seems to think things over, but Jean cuts into his thoughts with an obnoxious, "Come on, bro, you've got a tournament to win!"

"Yeah," Mina cheers. "Big bro Zeke can handle your sister!" Oh, can he. The petite girl looks to Zeke with a face-splitting smile, like he is _the_ big brother, and he wonders when that happened. 

"Okay, okay," Marco hands the bag over, and Zeke nods in a respectful manner. 

Back upstairs, Zeke goes to his room, pulls a hoodie from his closet, then paces across the hall to the bathroom. The small room is filled with steam, tile slippery under his feet, and with the door locked, Zeke slips out if his sweats and steps under the spray. 

You squint at him to keep soap from getting in your eyes, shyly ask, "What are you doing?" 

"I told you I'd be back. Still have one more thing to do." 

You shake your head, confess, "I can't do anything else. I'm just now gaining feeling back in my legs."

Zeke snorts, bends to rest his forehead on your shoulder, then wraps his arms around your waist. "Nothing like that. I'm talking about aftercare."

"What-er-care?" 

He kisses your collarbone, straightens back up, then wipes wet hair from your face. "It's bigger in BDSM, but I figure you could benefit from it right now." And, it's true. Not only did you just have a fairly intense sexual experience, it was your first time having real intercourse with someone, someone you don’t know well, at that. Even if you seem okay now, Zeke knows that you’ll be questioning yourself sooner rather than later, and he doesn't want to cause any more damage than he potentially already has. 

He tells you all of this and more, and you look confused by it, "Seems a bit, uh, intimate," before turning and relaxing against Zeke's chest. 

Right next to your ear, he smirks, "Baby, I had my face buried in your pussy, like, five minutes ago. You squirted on me twice. Doesn't get much more intimate than that."

"Okay, true."

You bathe, and Zeke helps you with your hair, runs a loofah as well as his fingers down your body and kisses here and there. He tries not to worry—he's never been all that interested in being so doting with previous partners—but he chalks it up to the modicum of guilt he feels at being the one you shared this important experience with. Yeah, virginity is just a concept, but it sure is a rampant one. Plus, you only knocked on his door looking for advice, right? Just some tips and tricks—learn your own body, use lube, tell your partner if they're hurting you, etc. —but then… you had seemed almost eager when Zeke had offered to show you firsthand. Had you… Is that how you had wanted it to go all along? 

He doesn't ruminate on it for long, decides to ask you point blank, "Did you really only come upstairs to ask advice, or were you hoping it would turn into me fucking you?" 

Your eyes grow, skin turning dark for reasons other than the scalding water, but Zeke is impressed when you seem to answer in an honest way. "I guess maybe a bit of both?" He cocks his head to the side, hands still on your hips. "I really did want _guidance_ , or whatever, but a little part of me, yeah, kinda hoped maybe it would happen. I wasn't so bold as to assume it would, though." 

"You seem more like the hands-on type of learner," Zeke jokes, and you bury your face just under his shoulder, laugh against it. 

You get out not long after, and Zeke does his best to dry your hair before passing you your bag and his hoodie. 

"What's this for?" 

"You have a couple hickeys on your neck that your t-shirt isn't gonna cover up," he brushes his finger gently over one of them. "This way you can at least pull the hood up. 

"Okay, I will look crazy if I do that." 

"No, you'll look like you don't feel well and want to be comfortable." He flicks a nipple causing you to squeak and bat his hand away. "Plus, it's cold down there, and you have wet hair."

"Fine, fine," you concede, tug your leggings on without any panties (dear god) then slip into Zeke's hoodie, also bare underneath. Zeke's groan is too quiet to pick up on, but knowing you’re naked under his clothes… 

He pulls the hood up over your head, grins at how absolutely dwarfed you look, and gives you one last kiss—deep and longer than necessary—then points to the door. 

You grab your bag and step out only to peek back in with a not-so-hidden smile as you say, "Thanks. For everything."

"Yeah," Zeke pulls his pants back on. "Any time. Now go down there and look sick." 

You do just as you’re told, and Zeke's mind gets stuck on a loop of _good girl, good girl, good girl,_ for a while as he busies himself in his own room. He cleans his glasses, changes his sheets (after staring at them for a solid minute), and turns Netflix back on to not pay attention to. Alone again, he's able to hear everyone downstairs, shouts and laughs, and at one point a tell-tale _"chug, chug, chug"_. He lasts an hour before he ventures down with the excuse of wanting pizza. 

The scene has changed only slightly—less boxes, more drinks, and a couple of swaying kids. Mikasa is playing Marco now, the freckled boy spinning in a tight circle from too much alcohol, but there's a lopsided grin on his face as he K.O.s Ryu, Mikasa swearing under her breath. "Fuckin' unbeatable." 

Zeke grabs a cold piece of pizza from the box closest to Eren, takes a bite, then holds his hand out for Mikasa's controller. His brother lets out a deep, _"Ooh, shit,"_ and Zeke smirks, tries not to look at you huddled in the corner of the couch, legs up against your chest, swimming in his hoodie. 

Toggling around the character screen, Zeke chooses Ganon, then looks to Marco. "Ready?" 

"Hell yeah." 

Marco is actually pretty fucking good, Zeke has to admit as he takes more damage than he probably ever has in Smash Bros, but in the end, it is Little Mac who gets blown off the map, making the room erupt in a chorus of cheers and curses. 

"What the fuck, how did you do that?" Jean shouts, up on his feet. "You beat Marco. He's the _champion_."

Zeke glances sideways at him. "I've got a few more years experience, kiddo," thrusts the controller into Jean’s hand and follows up, "Plus, he is pretty fucked up." 

"That I am!" Marco lifts a cup of God knows what. "Play me again when I'm sober!" 

"You'd _definitely_ lose then," Jean jabs, squawks when his friend tugs him down on the couch almost on top of him. 

"Don't be rude, Jean," he slurs. "Just get better at Smash." 

Jean wriggles until he's sitting beside Marco and not on top of him, and Zeke actually does look at you now, raising an eyebrow in question because Eren hasn't mentioned two of his best friends dating each other, but that was definitely more than just friendly play, and if anyone would know about it, it'd probably be you. 

Chin resting on your knees, you just shrug your shoulders, your eyes the only thing Zeke can actually see of your face, but they are shining brightly, and Zeke grabs his pizza and stalks over to you just as a new match begins on screen. 

"How're you feeling?" He questions, mostly a joke but laced with real curiosity. 

Faking like a champ, you wrinkle your nose and grumble, "I'll be better if you get that pizza away from me."

Zeke takes a big bite, smiles around it, and tries not to look too pleased. It's a little surreal, standing in this room of his brother's friends, all of them having a good time, worry-free, completely oblivious to what took place upstairs. Zeke can hardly believe it himself, knows you’re probably trying to wrap your head around it too.

"Yo, Zeke," he looks up at Eren calling his name. "Play me." 

"Fine, but give me the classic controller. I don't like playing on the remotes." 

Eren grumbles something that sounds a lot like "old man" but still syncs the classic and hands it over. It really is easier, reminiscent of the old GameCube controllers Zeke truly believes to be the best design, not that anyone is asking him. 

Playing the video game gives him a reason to sit down at least, and he plops down next to you in the corner, quietly snorts when you bury your face in your knees, then starts destroying Eren on screen. 

It's not that the kids are bad (actually Armin and Mina are pretty hopeless, but the others are decent), it's just that Zeke has spent a lot of time playing Super Smash Bros. First the original on Nintendo 64, then Melee on GameCube, then Brawl on the Wii, and now Ultimate on the Switch. He taught Eren to play pretty much as soon as he could hold a controller, probably gave the kid a complex from never letting him win, and spent hours in high school hunched in front of the screen during the off season of baseball. 

"You're a fucking animal, Zeke," Marco states, looks around the room and swings a hand out, "Are you guys fucking seeing this?" 

"Been seeing it my whole god damn life," Eren grunts, thinks he might have Ganon cornered in the shitty alcove under Hyrule Castle then curses loudly when Zeke blasts Eren's Cloud Strife off the stage. "Fuck. Alright, who's next?" 

"My sister’s actually pretty decent," Marco pipes up, twists to look at you and asks, "Will the screen make you dizzy?" 

You just hold out a hand for the controller and remain curled over your legs, eyes peeking over your knees as Zeke navigates to the character screen and you quickly pick Dark Samus. A girl after his heart. 

"Nice," he whispers, nods, then gets to the different stage options and tells you, "You pick."

"Kongo Jungle it is…"

Donkey Kong music starts. Zeke leans forward and truly considers going easy on you until you fucking shoot him, and that idea goes out the window. You hold your own for a while, thumbs pressing down on the buttons furiously, though otherwise you seem impassive. You aren’t quite as good as your brother, but catch Marco on an off day, and you’d probably beat him. 

Zeke wins this match, of course, but you look unimpressed when you hand the controller to Jean, like you were expecting to lose anyway. 

"Good try," he tells you smugly, and he's surprised to feel a light nudge to his thigh, a subtle kick that makes him chuckle. 

The little shin-dig winds down in the early morning hours, Zeke retreating back upstairs when the kids start cleaning up and passing the fuck out. You stay in your corner, lean into the couch cushions and pull the strings of Zeke's hoodie so that your eyes are covered. It's cute. You’re cute. Alarmingly cute. 

His room still faintly smells like sex, but Zeke doesn't mind, just collapses on his bed and stares up at his ceiling with a pout. 

The night did not go as expected. Not even a little bit. Eren's friends were supposed to stay downstairs and make a mess and drink themselves stupid because Zeke always lets them as long as they don't leave the house, and while all of that did happen, the curve ball of Zeke getting his dick wet was thrown in there, and now… Now he doesn't know. He doesn't know anything except his desire to go back, pluck you from the couch, and bring you back to his room. 

That's not supposed to happen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back by popular demand, but let me preface this by a little tiny thing: i know people really like this story, but please please please don't scream in the comments about me continuing it. if i do, i do, but nothing saps creators of inspiration like people demanding more from them, and this is the fic that people seem to always beg for. i appreciate the enthusiasm, but please keep in mind i'm not a vending machine. that said, i genuinely hope y'all enjoy this and that it holds up to part one.
> 
> **This takes plays days after part one.**

When your phone buzzes in your back pocket, you check it without even thinking, see Ian's name, and are thrown into a world of turmoil. 

**Party at Nifa's tomorrow night. Wanna come?**

You stare at the screen, digest the words, the question, the implication. You've been talking with Ian for a couple weeks now, both of you just trying to feel the other out. He's a sophomore in college, plans on going into sports medicine, and he's nice. Hasn't pressured you into anything, which is more than you can say for some guys your age. 

A few days ago, you would have been thrilled to receive the invitation, but now… now it just makes you think of Zeke. 

Zeke who you confided in. 

Zeke who you asked for advice. 

Zeke who gave you that advice and more. So much more. And you had wanted all of it, almost begged for it, almost… 

Gripping your phone tighter in your hands, you shake your head, smile to yourself. 

That night, just a few days ago, had been mind-blowing. You hadn't ever experienced anything like that before, not even the foreplay, and definitely not what came after. 

It had been a risk going up to his room, one you're surprised you worked up the courage to take, but you hadn't lied to him when you told him you had no one else to go to. Mina is even more of a virgin than you are (were), Mikasa might be too, but she doesn't kiss and tell. Any of the guys would tease you mercilessly except for your brother who would probably have an aneurysm, and Ymir would probably just give you a noogie, a shot, and tell you to figure it out because _"how the fuck should I know, I'm gay as hell."_

So yes, Eren's older brother had been your best bet at not humiliating yourself entirely. Zeke always did have a weird air of knowledge about him—could be the beard and glasses, could be that he's usually reading whenever you and Marco go over to the house, or it could just be the fact that he's an actual adult. 

The house is his. He and Eren live alone, their parents somewhere up north. From what you've picked up from Marco and Eren is that Zeke was a crazy good pitcher on his high school baseball team and got a full ride to a university of his choice.

From there, he was drafted into the major league and played for a few years; he almost made it to the World Series a couple times before tearing something in his elbow and needing surgery to fix it. Eren said he could have played more afterward, but the injury prompted the older Jaeger to go back to school for his masters— _"something about only having a few good years left anyway or some old man shit like that."_

The whole point is that Zeke Jaeger is a whole adult, one with a fair bit of money tucked away from his professional sports career, one who looks after his dumb younger brother, one who is insanely skilled in bed. Just a well-rounded guy. 

So the whole idea of him even giving you the time of day is laughable. 

But he did. He took care of you, and joked with you, and made you feel comfortable. 

Honestly what had you been thinking? You hadn't even drank anything before going up there that night. Apparently, the fear of embarrassing yourself in front of Ian was all the motivation and courage you needed to knock on Zeke's door. 

You would like to say it worked out. You really would. The sex was incredible, Zeke was (is) insanely hot, and he put actual effort into making sure you didn't feel like garbage when it was all over. All-in-all, it was a fantastic experience. 

Which is exactly why you cannot stop fucking thinking about it. You can't get the dude out of your head. His face. His body. His voice. His hands, the way they touched you, the way he kissed you, the way he fucked you and groaned how good you were and—

Your eyes snap up to meet Marco's when he calls your name, phone and message forgotten in your hands. 

"Sorry, what?" 

He rolls his eyes at you but smiles. "Jean, Armin, and I are going to Eren's after school." Your stomach somersaults again. "Wanna come?" 

"What are we gonna do?" You hope you look more casual than you feel, heat rising up the back of your neck. 

Shrugging, Marco looks to Armin who just says, "Same stuff we always do." Which translates to video games, eating, TV, and some crass name-calling. 

"Yeah, sure. Just don't make fun of me when I bring homework."

"Nerd," Eren grins, deflects the potato chip you throw at him. 

And that is how you find yourself in the backseat of Armin's old station-wagon, sandwiched between Eren and Jean since Marco has the longest legs and therefore rights to shotgun. 

You're nervous. Very nervous. Have to wipe your sweaty palms on your knees before sliding out of the car and following Eren and the others up the walkway. 

You try not to look too much like a deer in the headlights when you walk into the house, a house you have been inside of too many times to count; it is _the_ hang out place, the safe haven house, so there really is no reason for you to be as jittery as you are, but here you are, mentally and physically unbalanced as you toe your shoes off by the door. 

"Hey, Zeke," Eren greets his brother who is reclining on the couch, laptop perched on his legs. "Got some of the squad with me today."

"When do you not?" Zeke gruffs, not even looking up. 

Jean, bold as ever, steps further in and tries, "Aw, come on, you know you love having us," which actually gains the blond man's attention. 

Zeke glances up, a no-doubt witty and scathing response on his tongue, but those startling, light eyes land on you for just a moment, just long enough for the air to vacate your lungs, and he settles with a bored, "Whatever. Just know I'm not feeding all of you."

"Okay, well can we have the TV?" Eren asks, sliding out of his jacket.

Zeke doesn't move but nods, "Sure."

"Are you, like, gonna stay down here?" 

"What, scared I'm gonna _cramp your style_ or something?" Zeke sneers. 

The older Jaeger typically leaves you all alone, stays up in his room or the kitchen. He even gave Eren the master bedroom downstairs just so he could put distance between his brother and all the get-togethers he hosts. 

"I mean—"

"Christ, Eren, as soon as I finish this paragraph I'll get outta your way."

His tone is a little sharper than usual today, or maybe you're just paying too close attention. You've always sort of kept an eye on Zeke, though, pretty much once you and Marco started hanging out with Eren in the tenth grade. He's hard to ignore. Not because he's loud or huge or anything like that; he just demands attention without actually asking for it. 

He'll pass through a room, shoot off a one-liner that leaves everyone laughing, or stands and watches the guys play a game they think they're good at, only to take a controller and completely demolish them. He offers half sarcastic, half real advice when the boys ask him. He's just always… _Cool_. Both in the aloof, careless kind of way and in the more shallow, impressive sort of way. Zeke Jaeger is the epitome of calm and confident. 

And you definitely had sex with him and are now staring at him—light shaggy blond hair pushed from his face, glasses high on his nose, lips pulled up on one side as he types with long fingers. He's wearing jeans and a red flannel that's rolled up almost to his elbows, the collar crooked, tempting you to fix it, but you don't. Instead, you dismiss yourself to the downstairs bathroom to lean against the counter and laugh at yourself. 

This is honestly the strangest predicament you've ever been in, have ever _put_ yourself in, and you have had many opportunities for odd situations. You've always been a levelheaded person, always been told you act much older than your age ( _"thanks, it's the trauma"_ ), always act rationally. So, why… 

There is no regret. Not at all. What a fucking first time, right? You sort of lucked out with that, but now, still coming over to the 'Jaeger Bros household' (as Eren so charmingly coined), acting like nothing is different when _everything_ is different… it's jarring. Looking at Eren this whole week at school has been jarring. Hearing the guys talk about Smash and tease you has been jarring. Standing in this downstairs bathroom when you remember showering _upstairs_ with Zeke is jarring. 

But you can't show that anything is off because that—anyone finding out—would be bad. What you did with Zeke was perfectly legal, but you doubt either of you would hear the end of it if anyone else figured it out. 

You wash and dry your hands then take a deep breath and step back out into the hallway. 

_Like nothing happened. Like nothing happened. Like nothing happened._

You reach the den just in time to see the boys sprawling over the couch and chairs, Zeke shutting his laptop and tucking it as well as a couple folders under his arm as he stands. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, walk forward to take his place on the couch, but freeze when he addresses you, and your eyes flick up to his, blue so pale it looks like his irises are made of ice, and the little twinkle in them only adds to their shiver-inducing effect. "I found that copy of Paradise Lost I was telling you about the other night." He nods toward the staircase, and you very quickly understands what he's trying to do. 

If anyone is paying you even a little attention they'd be able to see your face redden. Your heart hiccups in your chest, pulse racing, but your brain pushes into overdrive with a loud chant of _yes yes fuck yes_. 

"Oh, you mean when I was throwing my guts up?" You are amazed at how clear your voice is, not even a little shaky. 

Zeke chuckles and nods, already looks much less severe than when you first arrived with the guys. You shuffle through the den, tell Marco that you'll be back, not that he asked as he and Eren once again set up Smash Bros. Zeke motions you up the staircase, and you wonder if he can tell what sort of state you're in, if he can see the beat of your heart in your neck, or hear how shallow your breathing really is. His footsteps are louder than yours, trailing behind, and damn, you wish you knew how he was looking at you. What's his expression—

You hit the top step and, out of sight, feel a large hand splay over your back, Zeke gently but firmly pushing you forward and through his open door which is very quickly shut behind you. You walk into his room further, watch as he sets his laptop and papers down on a desk in the corner, then work up the moxie to tease, "So, that John Milton, huh?" 

"A genius," Zeke smirks. "How're you feeling?" 

You know what he's asking—did he hurt you, emotionally, physically—he doesn't have to say it because you can see it, concern not entirely masked under that half-smile. 

Running a hand through your hair, you manage to shoot him a small, nervous grin. "Fine. No, um… Regrets, or whatever." 

"Good," Zeke nods, glances away for a nanosecond then back again. "Have you talked to the guy?"

"What?" 

"The guy, the one you're trying to impress or whatever." 

"Oh," you flush further. You feel like that's really all you do around Zeke—blush—and one look at his bed just makes it worse. That night when he had dove between your legs with fingers and tongue, fucked into you from above then below when you rode him, the mess you made of each of you and the sheets, the noises that... 

"No." You clear your throat. "He texted me today about a party, but we haven't… No." 

"Are you going to?" That question catches you off-guard, as does the cocked eyebrow that accompanies it, his expression now dripping with a sort of knowing curiosity, like he's already privy to your answer but wants to hear it anyway. Does he know? Do you know? 

"I don't know." Apparently not. 

"Why? You obviously like the kid, if you're willing to brave Eren's scary older brother for help." 

You actually laugh at this. It feels strange, like a little weight lifts, and you realize it's because you're standing with the only other person who knows your secret. You have nothing to hide from Zeke, already showed him everything. 

"None of us think you're that scary, for your information." 

He pouts. "I'm a little hurt by that, honestly." 

"I mean, we all think you're a little weird, if that helps," you snort, beam when Zeke squints at you, the corners of his mouth curling more and more. "Are you seen as scary by a lot of people?" 

"I've been told I can be intimidating."

That is not surprising. He kind of is _extremely_ intimidating but, "Maybe it's different since Eren has aired out most of your dirty laundry to us."

"Oh, has he?" Zeke crosses the floor to sit on his bed, has to look up at you from his place. 

You feel strange, like you don't know what to do with yourself. You nibble your lip, wring your hands behind your back, toe at the wood beneath your feet, just _fidget_ , yet you still keep that smile on your face, try your damndest to not look as awkward as you feel. 

"For sure. Baseball career is old news. We're all way more interested in your monkey phase now." 

"My monkey—" Zeke thinks before obviously realizing what you're talking about, palms his whole face, "Oh my God, Eren wasn't even _alive_ for that, how does he know—" 

"Apparently your mom has pictures."

"Yeah, in the house in Cape Cod."

You make a face, high eyebrows and sly grin. "I guess Eren thought it'd be useful to take pictures of said pictures, got drunk one night and now…" You shouldn't be giving Eren away like this, but the way Zeke's ears are turning red is adorable and all too encouraging. "Come on, it's not like you actually care what we think."

"I—..." He stops, snaps his jaw shut and nods. "You know what, that's true." 

Rolling your eyes, you cross your arms, wonder if Zeke's gaze really did flick to your covered chest or if you're just imagining things. You aren't much to look at today, you think. At least the other night you had been in your favorite shorts and a stupid tight t-shirt, but today you feel utterly average standing in Zeke's bedroom, especially with him right in front of you looking devilishly handsome in his usual careless yet strangely put-together way. 

Maybe… Maybe you've always had a little crush on him. Maybe you just ignored it until now. And maybe there's a reason you haven't texted Ian back, and that reason is reaching out to grab you by the wrist. 

"You just gonna stand there all day, or—"

It's oddly natural, the way you let Zeke tug you closer, the way you lower and slot your legs on either side of his, the way your hands find his chest at the same time his settle on your hips. It shouldn't be so easy, but your brain is on autopilot, has been for days now, and your heart rate somehow slows down and speeds up at the same time—can't be healthy—and those icy eyes are wide as Zeke peers at you through his glasses, and you murmur, "This is a dangerous game," to which Zeke smirks, nods, then goes in for the kill. 

His lips aren't quite as gentle as they were before, but his kiss is still hopelessly intoxicating. You could get drunk off of him, _are_ getting drunk off of him. Your immediate response is arching your back, pushing your chest against his, then exhaling sharply through your nose when his hands travel down to your ass, gripping tightly. He smells so fucking good, a spicy aroma with a hint of something else. Whatever it is, it does _things_ to you. 

He bites your lower lip, gives it a small tongue, then presses in again, and you're eager to open your mouth, to welcome his tongue, hot and experienced and _holy shit, that's been in my pussy_ , and claiming. You feel claimed, had to cover up hickeys for three whole days, always checking in bathroom mirrors to make sure the makeup hadn't worn away. 

But there's a voice of reason, very quiet, in the back of your head that somehow gets you to pull back just enough to speak. Your breaths mingle together, and you look at Zeke through heavy lids, taken aback by how blown his pupils are, then kiss him chastely once more. 

"I need to go back downstairs. Can't use the sick excuse again." 

Zeke chuckles almost imperceptibly but agrees. However, he pauses, mumbles a low, "Just one more thing," then reaches up and pulls the collar of your V-neck aside and attaches his mouth to a patch of skin just under your collarbone. You let out a short whine, rock in his lap as he sucks and bites and sucks again until he pulls back and grins sideways in approval. 

"Um," you laugh. "I've gotta say, I feel like I don't know you well enough for you to be marking your territory," you only half joke because on one hand it's true—you and Zeke have had maybe two full conversations at this point—but on the other hand, you are so hot for him, it's unreal. You're also a little flattered. 

"I'm not marking my territory," he negates. "You just look good bruised."

Your entire body heats at that, sends a shiver down your spine, and you almost shove Zeke down in his own bed to return the favor, but you are still lucid enough to know that would not be a wise thing to do. Not right now, anyway. Instead, you plant a foot on the ground and get up, tugging your shirt over the angry mark. 

"I still have your hoodie, by the way. I would have brought it if I knew we'd be coming over, but…"

"Don't worry about it. Some other time." 

He also rises, looks down at you for a long moment like he's contemplating something, then steps passed you over to a tall bookshelf in the corner of his room. He runs a finger over the spines of each book until finding what he's looking for, then pulls it from its place and hands it to you—a worn copy of Paradise Lost. 

"That's got some pretty good annotations in it, just so you know."

"And just so you know, I don't actually need this." 

"It's why you came up here, though," he reminds you in a chiding tone. 

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter, flipping through it. Zeke wasn't wrong when he said he took serious notes. The thing is full of highlighted passages and thoughts scribbled in the margins. 

You sense him closing distance again, are pulled from your perusing by two fingers under your chin and look up at the blond with hazy eyes. He is just so…

He catches your lower lip with his thumb, running the pad of it over the sensitive skin, and you just gaze at him as your insides melt. The way he's staring at you… you want him again. Want to feel him again. On top of you and inside you and all over you. There is a dull but unmistakable throb between your legs, and the realization has you flushing so warm and dark, there's no way Zeke doesn't know what he's doing to you. 

"Alright then," he smirks. "Be a good little girl and go back to your friends."

It makes you suck in a sharp breath. _Good girl_. That… You've never… No one has ever… Why does it feel so fucking good? And, why does he know? It's _disturbing_. 

You nod, idly wonder how bad it would be if you just… stayed up here the whole time, played it off as the two of you getting caught up talking about books. It could work. It's a believable story. 

"Downstairs," Zeke prompts rather smugly, obviously aware of what your dumb brain is doing. 

You swallow and turn, walking on shaky legs to the door all while feeling Zeke watching you. Book clutched tightly in your hand, you leave and descend the staircase to join your friends once again. 

It's odd this time. No one is drunk and you can't make yourself tiny in the corner of the couch because Armin is already sitting in it. You have to settle with sitting next to Eren on the floor once you haul your backpack over, determined to distract yourself with homework. You just made out with Zeke upstairs. You just sat in his lap and let him mark you and loved it. 

A dangerous game indeed. 

~

"Hey, can you cover a cocktail shift this Saturday?" Hannes asks from behind the bar, planting two hurricane glasses upside-down on the drying mat. 

You make a face, know you shouldn't challenge your boss, but you still need to know, "Which bartenders will I be working with?" It is very important information. The success of your shift sort of hinges on the shoulders of whoever is making your drinks. 

"Uh," Hannes looks up at the ceiling, closes one eye like he's thinking. "Saturday evenings are… Petra and Nana, but Nana is out of town, so I'm gonna pull Galli in, if I can."

"Galli?" You’ve never heard of them before. 

"Yeah, Galliard. He's usually on week-nights, but he said something about needing extra cash, so—"

"Saturday's the way to go."

"Exactly. He's an okay dude, though. No one's had any problems with him so far." 

You nod and agree because you, too, could use some extra money, and besides, Hannes is always very understanding whenever you have to take time off. Plus he doesn't mind talking to your problem tables. 

"Awesome. I appreciate it."

Saturday afternoon rolls around, and you slink out of the apartment you share with both Marco and Ymir clad in short denim shorts and your _Garrison's_ t-shirt, the V-neck you reserve for cocktail shifts such as this. Thankfully, it still covers the bruise that was left below your collarbone—you had made sure to check, skin prickling as you stared at the mark in the mirror. 

You take the metro to the closest stop and tie your hair up as you step through the doors of the restaurant you’ve worked at since you turned sixteen. 

You check in with Hannes in the office and situate your apron, make sure you have more than enough pens to last the evening, then go to relieve the server in your section. 

Petra waves at you as she passes, quickly counting bills before handing them off to another server in the well. Leaning over the bartop further down is a stocky redhead you’ve never seen before, obviously Galli. 

Falling into your shift rather easily, you take orders and punch them in, run food and drinks, and do your best to bullshit with your tables. You’re used to the way male patrons look at you, dressed to show off a little bit because of it. Tips come a lot easier when men can stare at your legs and chest, and even though it makes you uncomfortable sometimes, if it will get you thirty percent, so be it. 

Galli ends up formally introducing himself maybe an hour into the shift. His red hair is slicked back and he has a charming, boyish smile that you have no doubt gets him everything he wants. "I'm Galliard," he holds out a hand after wiping it on his low-slung jeans. "Everyone calls me Galli." 

You offer your own name, then, "Hannes said you usually work week nights?" 

"Yeah," he nods. "I've been trying not to do weekends, but you know, shit happens."

He's a good bartender, quick with drinks, good with guests, not a complete dick with the servers like some, though you do hear him snap a couple times ( _"If you wanted it on the rocks, why the fuck did you ring it in frozen?"_ ). Being that your section is connected to the bar, you end up making some small talk with him, Petra, and Marlowe the barback until it gets too busy to dick around. It's slightly faster paced than you’re used to, but you’re good at the job—able to multitask and give the guests what they want. 

"Hey," Galli calls to you from the other side of the bar top as you walk with a tray full of empties. "My friends are coming by. Are you cool with them taking your 2-0-4?"

"Are they gonna camp?"

"Oh, most definitely," he laughs. "But they tip really well. I always make sure of it."

You wave a hand, "Yeah, it's fine." 

"Cool, thanks. I'll make sure they take care of you!" 

You shoot him a look, shake your head when he winks, and you remember Hannes telling you the guy hasn't had any trouble yet. You think you know why. 

204 is a round high-top that gets sat as soon as it opens up, so you subtly place an 'On Wait' sign on it, snort when Galli claps his hands together as if to pray to you, then disappear into the back to drop your dishes and pay a table out. 

As soon as you walk back out, you stop, eyebrows rising on your forehead. The high table is once again full, taken up by five new people, but not all of them are strangers. You recognize a broad man with blond hair and a wolfish grin as well as the gangly brunet beside him as some of Ymir's friends, Reiner and Bertl. They've been to the apartment a few times, enough for you and Marco to know them and for the men to know you. There’s a tiny blonde girl on the other side of Bertl, and next to her is one more familiar face, only this one makes your insides twist uncomfortably, the sensation only worsening when icy blue eyes catch yours and widen slightly at the sight of you. 

Zeke. 

Because of course. 

Galli suddenly rushes out from the side of the bar to sidle up beside you, boldly throwing an arm around your shoulders like he's known you for more than a few hours as he all but shouts, "Yo, meet my friends!" 

"I actually know some of your friends," you tell the ginger, look back and smile at them, "Reiner, Bertl, Zeke," the 'k' of his name seems to echo in your mouth, and Zeke arches an eyebrow, the same side of his mouth twitching upward. 

_Fuck fuck fuck,_ there's no way you’re gonna to be able to focus with him being there. 

"Oh, cool! So that means I won't have to lecture them on the proper etiquette of tipping." 

"Pock, I was a bartender for seven years," Reiner gruffs. "I know how to fucking tip." 

"I'm just making sure! Anyway, that's Annie," Galli points to the little blonde who nods, "And that’s Marcel, my brother. Guys, order the good shit through her, but uh,” he glances over his shoulder then leans into the table, “I can put cheap liquor on the spill tab, so like, _you know…_ ”

Annie salutes sarcastically, and Galli takes it as his signal to get back behind the bar. 

“So, uh, what can I get ya’?” You start, pulling your notepad from your apron before you lean over the table between Marcel and Reiner.

They order a couple appetizers and drinks—Bertl and Annie get cocktails sweet enough to give you a headache while Reiner and Marcel stick to IPAs, and Zeke orders an Old Fashioned that prompts Reiner to laugh and mumble a low, “Fuckin’ grandpa.”

You snicker, try not to shiver when your gaze flicks to Zeke and find him staring at you from under the thick rims of his glasses, a knowing, naughty kind of stare that sets your body on fire. 

“I will be right back with all of that,” you say, followed by a cough, then scamper over to a different table. 

It’s busy enough that no one pulls you over to talk at any of your tables save for a woman who has a problem with her shrimp cocktail because it tastes _“too fishy”_ , and for that, you call Hannes over. You move quickly, enjoy the feeling of your book getting fuller and fuller with each passing party, and when you do have a little bit of time, you make sure to spend it at Galli’s table, try to situate yourself between Reiner and Marcel every time because they’re both nice and it puts enough distance between you and Zeke for you to be able to _breathe_. 

More drinks, more apps, a round of cheap shots _“on Galli”_. Reiner tries to get you to take one, and while your protest is, “Um, I could definitely lose my job,” Zeke chooses to speak up with a snide, “She’s not twenty-one, dumbass.”

Reiner holds up a finger as if to argue but thinks better of it. “That is very true. When do you and little Marco graduate, anyway?”

You laugh, flick hair out of your eyes and tell him, “I’m out at the end of this year, but Marco still has one more to go.”

“I didn’t know you were the older sister,” Zeke muses, and he looks genuinely taken aback.

You can’t help but tease, “I sure hope I’m older. Marco’s only sixteen.” And the implication is not lost on the blond as he looks back down to the table, bottom lip tugged between his teeth as he tries and fails to hide his smirk. 

You have to watch out. You can’t overstep or give anything away, but it’s hard when Zeke is sitting there in a dark t-shirt and bomber jacket, jeans tucked into combat boots. His light hair is combed out of his face, and his beard has been trimmed, and he just keeps _looking_ at you like he has something he wants to say but he can’t, and neither can you, and you probably shouldn’t even have anything to say because it’s not like whatever you’re doing is anything to talk about. It isn’t _anything_. It isn’t—

“I’ve gotta pee,” you tell Galli as you untie your apron and hand it to him to keep behind the bar. "Steal from that, and I will end you."

"Wouldn't dream of it, doll," he grins, stashing it under the register. "I'll keep an eye on your section."

You thank him and then gallop down the few steps to the main serving floor. You nod to your co-workers on the way to the restroom then do what you need to do as quickly as possible—a skill everyone in the service industry must learn. After washing your hands, you open the door with paper towels then toss them into the nearby trashcan before sliding out into the cramped walkway. 

You bump into someone immediately which is a common occurrence, but when hands move up to steady you, you’re hit with the idea that you running into this _someone_ was not just by chance. 

"Were you waiting for me out here like some kind of creep?" You try to play like your heart isn't in your throat, like you’re more confident than you feel.

"Creep?" Zeke scoffs. "What, you get what you want from me, so now you're all mean?" 

You take on a sing-song tone. "I don't know what you're talking about.”

His hands are still on you, one clasped on your shoulder and the other at your hip, and Zeke takes a cursory look around, then crowds you against the wall to speak lowly, "I didn't know you worked here."

"Why would you?" You snicker. "We haven't exactly been big with the small talk." Or talk of any kind until a little over a week ago. 

"Fair point. Still, I feel like you know more about me than I do about you, and that just seems wrong considering I—"

"Well, I also don't have a mouthy little brother who likes to talk about my business to his friends, so there's your first problem." You tell him, stick your tongue between your front teeth before continuing. Your adrenaline takes over every time you speak with Zeke, or it has on the more recent occasions, so your mouth is a little sharper than usual, words clearer and much cheekier. "Plus, I'm surprised you're interested at all since that is what I am to you—one of Eren's friends."

Zeke blinks at you a couple times, digests the information, then cocks his head to the side. "Maybe that's all you were before, but now…" he trails off, and his lips stay parted, pale eyes going hazy, and you know you’re in trouble. 

"But now what?" 

You can only imagine the doe-eyed expression on your face as you look up at Zeke. You hardly realize your hands are moving until your fingers gently curl into the fabric at the bottom of his jacket. 

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Now, I'm invested."

"Oh, is that so?" 

There is, in the deepest, darkest recesses of your mind, a warning alarm ringing—an inaudible question of why—why would someone like Zeke Jaeger care—but it's so easy to ignore, so you do because the truth is that you like that he's invested and curious and keeps wanting to touch you. 

"It is," he murmurs, and the hand on your shoulder shifts so that he can use his thumb to push the fabric of your shirt aside and admire the mark he left there, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he stares. 

It's exciting and sexy and so not your life, and out of everyone you could have caught the attention of, it's Zeke? It feels like you hit some kind of jackpot. The guy is—he's fucking sex on legs. He's older and brilliant and talented and funny and a good big brother that looks out for all of Eren's friends in his own condescending way. He is so out of your league, but for some reason, he's giving you the time of day, and you are not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

"I've gotta get back to work, monkey boy," you remind him, grin when he rolls his eyes. "How long are y'all staying?" 

Zeke shrugs his shoulders and steps away, shoves his hands in his pockets. "I don't know. When does your shift end?" 

You reach into your back pocket and slide your phone out. It's nearly ten which means, "I've got about an hour left, plus side work, so I'll be getting out of here probably close to twelve."

"Did you drive?" 

You shake your head, feel tension coiling in your stomach. "Don't have a car. Took the metro."

Zeke frowns. "That is so dangerous."

Shrugging, you peek over his shoulder to look into your section. Galli is talking to one of your booths. 

"I mean, I was gonna Uber home."

"Like that's any better," Zeke admonishes. "Let me give you a ride."

It is one hundred percent a demand, no question anywhere at all. You laugh quietly. "Are you trying to give me a ride or _give me a ride?_ " 

You think you’re being all smooth and suggestive, but you are clearly out of your depth when you squeak at Zeke's crass, "I mean, I'll definitely fuck you again if given the chance, but I'm really more concerned with your safety right now." You blink at him several times, must look completely taken off guard because Zeke smirks and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. "Don't dish it if you can't take it, sweetheart."

And then he backs up and gestures for you to return to your fucking job, ducking into the men's room himself. 

You are left dazed as you go back to your section, only snapped out of it when Galli thrusts your apron back to you and rattles off a couple of updated bills— "2-0-1 ordered wings, 0-3 sent back their daiquiris, the _motherfuckers_ , and 0-6 is paying out—why do you look like that? Are you feeling okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, just uh, weird text from my friend," you lie. "Thanks for covering."

The shift is a little blurry after that, but you manage to keep your fuck ups to a minimum. Zeke sits and talks with his friends, sips on his drinks but doesn't get anywhere close to tipsy while Reiner and Marcel grow progressively louder the later it gets. Bertl is the first to stand from the table, grabbing Annie's small hand and fisting his other in the back of Reiner's coat. "Come on, big guy," he urges his friend forward. 

"Yeah, yeah, see ya' 'round," the large blond wriggles his fingers at you then marches down the walkway with his friends. 

It leaves Zeke and Marcel alone at the table and you in an awkward spot when Galli says, "Z, you can go if you need to. I've got him," while nodding toward his brother. 

"No, I'm fine," Zeke dismisses. "I'm taking her home after her shift."

"Oh?" A ginger eyebrow raises. "Oh, that's—"

"She's friends with my little brother."

You peer around the corner from where you stand at a computer, catching Zeke's gaze and shaking your head in a very _'tsk tsk'_ manner. 

"Guess that worked out then. Small fuckin' world, right?"

Once your last table has paid out, you start sweeping and refilling condiments, and you’re happy to be able to do your cash drop and walk out of Garrison's with Zeke before the restaurant even officially closes. He leads you to what you know to be a lifted black Bronco, having seen it in the Jaeger Bros driveway before, and even opens the door for you and helps you up into it. 

"I assume you live close to the house," he half asks half states when he slides into his seat. 

"Yeah, I'm in Canyon Springs, the apartment complex off Slidell."

"Yeah? A friend of mine lives there. Pretty nice place."

You nod and pull out your phone to text Ymir that you’re on your way home. Your cousin never outright requested she know the whereabouts of you and your brother at all times, but you know the check-ins ease the older girl's mind even if she won't ever admit to it out loud. 

"Marco and I live with our cousin. We split rent as best we can, but like, it gets tough sometimes, one of the reasons I took this shift tonight."

It falls silent for a few moments, and you inwardly cringe, wondering if you’ve said too much. The last thing you want is for Zeke to pity you.

Before you can backtrack or change the subject, though, he turns his car radio on, familiar music playing at a respectable volume, and your lips curl up at the corners when you ask, “Is this The Used?” even though you know the answer.

Zeke glances over, raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Huh. Figured they were a little before your time. Especially this album.”

It’s the first of the band’s discography, but you know it well. “Maybe a little before mine but not my cousin’s.” You go on to explain, “Marco and I went through a bit of an… Emo phase, I guess, after our parents…” You clear your throat and smile again. “Anyway, we got into a lot of different music. Just wanting to connect to something, you know?”

“Yeah,” Zeke nods. “I feel that. What’s on your typical playlist then?”

Your taste has changed a bit since then, but some of that old, angsty music still makes it on your track-listings. Other than that, they mostly consist of indie rock, movie soundtracks, and a little bit of K-pop here and there.

Zeke scoffs at this, mumbles a quiet, “Okay, I’m no longer impressed,” to which you roll your eyes and reach over to flick him in the arm.

He chuckles then fishes his phone out of his pocket, tosses it into your lap and tells you, “Pass code is 2-3-2-7-8. Put your number in. I’ll make a playlist and send it to you.”

“Trying to _broaden my horizons?_ ” You snort as you type in the five-digit code and navigate to his contacts, ignoring the way your hands are shaking.

It’s nothing. Just your phone number. It’s not like he’s gonna use it all the time.

Still, the idea of Zeke being able to contact you at any time lights your belly up with excitement. That feeling of being special thrums through your body, and you bite your lip to hide a giddy smile when you hand his phone back to him.

Neither of you say much afterward, so Zeke turns the music up, and you spend the rest of the car ride bobbing your head and mouthing lyrics you know by heart.

When the gate opens, you direct him to your building, but rather than just stopping to drop you off, Zeke pulls into one of the spots under an awning. You unbuckle your seatbelt but stay sitting for just a little too long, head too full and stomach doing somersaults until you’re finally able to look at him and utter a small, “Thanks for the ride. I really—

Zeke is out of his seatbelt and leaning over the console faster than you can track, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulls you into a harsh kiss. The smallest of whimpers escapes you, and you press in closer, curling a hand around the back of his neck and opening your mouth. He wastes no time in sliding his tongue inside, the kiss quickly turning hot and wet—desperate. You’ve never wanted anyone more in your life.

Because you know what he’s capable of, what he can do to you, and fuck, you can feel yourself getting wet just thinking about it.

There’s a tugging at the hem of your shirt, and you break to take it off, welcoming the cool air on your heated skin.

Then the little voice in your head pipes up again, reminding you that you’ve just gotten off a shift. You’ve been sweating and taking on the smell of every fried food known to man. It gives you pause, makes you very self-conscious, and you hold your hands up, “Wait, wait,” even as Zeke works at the front clasp of your bra. “I—Zeke, I just got off work. I probably smell, and—”

He looks at you over the rim of his glasses, brow furrowed in something between incredulity and condescension. “Listen, sweetheart,” he starts, and you do. “I don’t give a solitary _fuck_ that you don’t smell like flowers or whatever you think you’re supposed to smell like. All I care about is fucking your little pussy again, okay?”

You can actually feel your gaze get cloudy with lust, the throbbing between your legs increasing.

“Stop overthinking. Just take your pants off,” he presses.

You’re kicking your shoes off and shimmying out of your little shorts as quickly as you can, a shiver running down your spine when you hear the zipper of Zeke’s jeans. He falls back as he reclines his seat, sliding it as far away from the wheel as possible, then holds a hand out to help you over the center console. He’s kicked his pants off somewhere on the floorboard, leaving you to grind down on bare skin as you straddle him.

Bringing you in for another kiss, you feel his hand trail down your side, between your legs, and your moan is muffled by his mouth when he slips a finger into your heat far too easily.

Zeke breaks away to swear, pumping his finger and grinning salaciously up at you. 

“Baby, you’re _so wet_.”

Nodding almost shamefully, you squeeze your eyes shut. Embarrassed as you may be, though, you can’t help but rock your hips, effectively riding his finger and gasping when he slips a second one in. They feel _divine_ , rubbing against sensitive tissue and quickly pulling lewd noises from you. When you open your eyes again, you find Zeke watching you with a half-lidded gaze, like he’s completely enthralled.

Even with the odd angle of his wrist, he finds your clit without even looking, pressing his thumb to it and making perfect fucking circles that make you _drip_ for him. Your toes are curling, thighs tensing, and that pressure starts to build, but—

“I’m ready. Can we—Can I—”

“Can you what?” His voice is gravelly, thick with desire.

You can’t look at him as you try to finish your question, crushing your lips against his so you can mutter against them, “Can I ride you? I wanna—on your…” It’s still hard to get out, but Zeke gets the picture, and you can feel him smile into the kiss.

He nods, slides his fingers out of your needy pussy, then holds them to your mouth. You don’t think twice before sucking on them, tasting your arousal and taking the digits until they brush the back of your throat.

Zeke hums those two words you’ve been craving, _“Good girl,”_ and you whine around his fingers, lift yourself just enough for him to be able to position his cock between your folds. He teases you for a moment, using his now wet hand to hold you by the hip while he rubs his flushed tip back and forth over your slit. He’s hard and hot against you, and when he finally pushes into your clenching hole, his head lolls back against his seat, and he lets out a low, _“Fu-uck, baby.”_

You squeeze him, enjoying the way he’s stretching you, then start to sink down on his length, stalling when he huffs, “Don’t hurt yourself, okay?”

But you take him without much issue. He fills you so perfectly, rubs against your swelling walls, and fuck, you forgot how big he is, how thick, how he hits that spot inside of you without even trying.

You sit in his lap for a second, enjoying the way he twitches inside of you, then cant your hips experimentally and moan. Coherent thoughts no longer exist in your mind, just a raw craving to _fuck_. The moment you lift yourself, Zeke’s fingers dig into the flesh at your hips and guide you back down, and like that, the two of you fall into a rhythm.

Your skin slaps against his. The truck rocks. The windows start to fog in a way you’ve only seen in movies. Anyone who passes will know exactly what’s happening inside the vehicle, but you cannot bring yourself to care, not when Zeke is fucking up into you at just the right angle. Slick is dripping down your thighs, quickly joined by the less viscous fluid he milked from you the last time you slept with him.

Whimpering, you try to warn him, “Gonna ruin— _god_ —your seat,” but he just keeps rubbing circles on the little bud, unrelenting and apparently uncaring.

The empty buckle of the seatbelt is digging into your left knee, but you can’t stop moving, barely feel it as you ride Zeke as if possessed. You hadn’t realized how much you needed this, how much you’ve been craving it since the other night, but now you know, and you don’t think you’ll ever forget again.

“Fuck, you look so good—the way you take my cock, tight pussy squeezing me so nice—”

Heat bubbles in your belly as your orgasm approaches, cunt clenching then somehow opening further as if preparing your body to take his—

“Fuck,” you still suddenly, eyes going wide, and Zeke stares at you in surprise. “We forgot a condom.”

He makes a face but moves to open the center console, procuring a handful of napkins, then tells you, “I’ll warn you before I come. Promise.”

If you were in a more lucid frame of mind, you might protest, but his solution is enough to put you at ease, and you nod before quickly picking up where you left off.

Zeke is mumbling obscenities but quiets himself by leaning up and sucking one of your nipples into his mouth, gently biting the bud and flicking his tongue over it as he lifts and drops you on his cock over and over.

It’s too much—the sensation of him deep in your cunt, the way he’s licking over your flesh, his thumb pressing against sensitive nerves, and you can’t even finish your exclamation of, _“Oh god, I’m co—”_ before your climax rocks your body.

Eyes rolling, your jaw drops, and you let Zeke use you to his pleasure as you shiver and writhe and come. Your walls pulse around his cock, squeezing and fluttering as you whimper from oversensitivity.

“So close, baby, don’t worry.”

He doesn’t take long, waiting until the last possible second before lifting you quickly, his length slipping out of you entirely and springing up to bob against his stomach as he shoots his load right onto his shirt.

You watch the way his jaw slides, his eyebrows raising, and oh, you can see how flushed his face is in the dim light from the awning. He looks about as fucked out as you feel, and as he catches his breath, he shows a lopsided smile.

“Feel good?” He asks breathlessly.

You nod, add a quiet, “Dizzy… but good.”

It takes a couple minutes before you’re able to work up the strength to climb back over to your seat, ungraceful as you fall into it and start pulling your clothes back on. Zeke uses the napkins to dab at his shirt before eventually muttering, “Fuck it,” and taking it off to throw in the backseat.

You feel shaky, a little overwhelmed, and Zeke seems to pick up on it because he reaches over and places a gentle hand on your head, scratching against your scalp in a comforting manner.

“I’m sorry I can’t really take care of you this time.”

His hand falls to cup your cheek when you turn to look at him, and the way your heart pounds in your chest at the gesture is very concerning. It’s not a good idea to get attached, to develop real feelings, because you doubt he’ll ever fully return them.

But his palm is warm, and the way he’s looking at you—light eyes full of something, sincerity, worry, you don’t know.

“It’s fine. You didn’t, like, hurt me or anything,” you tell him. “I’m just gonna shower and wind down for the night.”

“Okay.”

He moves at the same time you do, one last kiss before you detach yourself from him and slip out of the Bronco.

You walk up concrete stairs on weak legs, able to feel the dampness of your panties, and you hope to God no one is awake in the apartment. As silent as you can be, you creep inside. The kitchen light is on, but it’s empty just like the living room. You can see a sliver of yellow peeking out from Marco’s bedroom door, basically hurtle past it to get to the safety of your own room, then grab some pajamas and bolt to the bathroom.

The shower is scalding, helps loosen the muscles that had grown tense over the course of your shift. It also washes away the evidence of your tryst, but every image—every word, every groan—remains at the forefront of your mind. You doubt any of it will be going away any time soon.

Hair washed and body scrubbed, you turn off the water and step out into a cloud of steam. It’s impossible to see your reflection in the mirror, but you think… You think if you looked into it, you’d see someone you’re not familiar with. You feel _different_. It isn’t because you’re having sex. It’s _who_ you’re having sex with. You still can’t wrap your head around it.

After drying off, you wrap your towel around your head then make your way back to your room. Every light is off now. Marco must have come out and seen your purse and keys on the counter and turned them all off. You settle into your room, try to relax after such a busy night, but it’s hard. Zeke’s hoodie is still hanging off your closet door, his copy of _Paradise Lost_ on your chest-of-drawers. Even if you wanted to get him out of your head, you wouldn’t be able to.

And, the last, slim possibility of that happening is wiped away entirely when your phone buzzes on your nightstand with a text message, an unknown number displayed. There are only two lines:

**Sleep tight**

and a link to Spotify.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: attempted coercion, drugs, mentioned death of parents

❁

So, you have a crush on Zeke.

It comes as an annoying revelation, but it's the truth, and you know it's the truth because you can't stop thinking about him. He's in your head _all the time_ , the events and short conversations from a week ago replaying like a slideshow. 

You know you shouldn't fall, shouldn't let yourself get in too deep since this can only end badly. Because of that, you turn down any offer to hang out at the Jaeger Bros. household. The mere thought of going over there, of seeing Zeke even in passing, makes your stomach ache in an uncomfortable yet satisfying way.

Even without coming in contact with him, though, it's impossible to ignore Zeke, not with the way your phone has been lighting up with his contact every few hours. It's your own fault. He texted you asking how you liked the playlist a few days ago, and you responded, prompting him to ask a few questions, prompting a _conversation_. One that won't die (not that you truly want it to). 

**Z** 🙊, **_4:17PM_**  
_The dude is kind of a dick, but he's a musical genius so whatever  
Anyway, what are you up to? _

You gnaw on your lower lip, thumbs poised over your keyboard as you contemplate how this might go. Your friends, brother included, are at Eren's, but you're not, and you're sure that if Zeke is there, he's noticed. 

Honesty is the best policy, and while you don’t tell him you're purposely putting distance between the two of you, you at least tell him what you've chosen over him. 

**You, _4:19PM_**  
_homework unfortunately_ 😖 _AP physics was not a good idea._

It really wasn't, and the fact that you're a year older than most of the seniors only adds insult to injury, makes you feel _stupid_ that these concepts aren't clicking, but you'll be damned before you drop to the regular course. The only way to get a decent scholarship is to show off. It's your last option at this point. 

Another reason to not get distracted. 

**Z** 🙊, **_4:22PM_**  
_Send me a pic_

Your eyebrows raise, gut stirring with anticipation. 

**You, _4:22PM_**  
_Uh… of what??_

**Z** 🙊, _**4:23PM**_  
_Your homework obviously_

Letting out a thin breath, you nod to yourself. _Obviously_. What else could he have been asking for?

You stare at the textbook on your lap, your paper covered in marks from an abused eraser, then move your phone over it to take a picture, editing it to highlight what’s important. 

**You, _4:25PM_**  
_Good luck  
Attachment: 1 image_

**Z** 🙊, _**4:27PM**_  
_I’m literally in grad school for the subject. I think I can handle it, babe.  
One sec_

Your belly feels like it’s suddenly full of bugs, and it’s hard to tell if it’s because Zeke just gave you a little taste of his personal life, or if it’s because _said_ little taste solidifies the fact that he’s extremely intelligent. Even with the condescension, you can’t help but feel hot, skin prickling as you wait.

**Z** 🙊, _**4:30PM**_  
_Alright I can call and walk you through it_

The thought that you didn’t actually ask for his help runs through your frazzled brain, but it’s quickly followed by the reminder that you’ve been staring at this specific problem for almost an hour.

Zeke figured it out in three minutes. 

You text back _‘okay’_ , take a few deep breaths and flip to a new page in your notebook. When your phone lights up again, however, it’s with a FaceTime call, and your heart is suddenly in your throat. Hearing his voice is one thing, but seeing him on screen is an entirely different matter.

Swearing, you smooth down your hair as best you can, very aware of your bare face and cami-clad torso. You slide your thumb over the call to open it, and there he is. 

“Hey,” he nods, gracing you with a half smile.

The week’s progress of not seeing him goes down the drain in a nanosecond. 

Shaggy hair is a little messy, falling over his forehead, curling around his ears so that you can barely see the tips of his AirPods. He’s shaved since you last saw him, thick, blond stubble just a shadow of the beard you’re used to. And, he’s _shirtless_. You can see his bare shoulders and collarbone, know what he looks like further down, and fuck, you’re already blushing. 

“Uh, hi.” 

His eyes are somehow just as disconcerting through the screen, lit up by it and glowing pale blue. Zeke stares at you for a moment, mouth curving upward more and more until he finally chuckles and shakes his head.

“Okay, so what you’re gonna do—...”

A relieved sigh escapes you, happy to get straight down to business. 

Because your problem isn't that you don't want to talk to him; it's that you _do_ want to. To flirt with him. To get to know him. You want it badly. It makes your palms sweat and neck tingle. Makes you bite your lip and shift your hips. It makes you desperate. 

But you push it all away, hold your phone with one hand while writing with the other. Your gaze flicks from your paper to the screen, listening closely as Zeke explains the steps, and you’re impressed with how he can break it down into smaller components when this is probably _baby stuff_ to him. Most people hit a certain level of education in a subject and lose their ability to simplify it, too used to more complicated work so they forget the basics. 

Zeke is patient, though, pausing and backtracking when you shake your head, asking, “Where did I lose you?” every time and picking up from that point. 

He does this for the remaining seven problems you have, and you knock out homework that likely would have taken you all night in about half an hour. Still, you imagine Zeke had to have had more interesting things he could have busied himself with. 

When you ask him, though, walking with your phone to the corner of your room where your backpack is, he just makes a non-committal noise and tells you, “Eren is here with his friends, and I’m trying to avoid going downstairs.”

His friends, your friends, they’re all the same, and you get that bubbling sensation in your gut when you think about the fact that all of them are over there, where you could be, but you’re at home, talking with Zeke on the phone. 

Nobody knows. It’s something you constantly ruminate on. Whatever this is you have with him, no one else is aware of it. It’s just between the two of you, and that alone adds another thick layer of tension to the current conversation. 

“I mean, I know you have a TV in your room—”

“Nothing worth watching.”

“And a giant bookshelf—”

“Not interested.”

You plop back onto your mattress, sticking your feet under the sheets and getting comfortable only to tense when Zeke speaks up again. 

“The real question is why _you_ aren’t over here.” Your grip tightens on your phone, and you look away from the screen, tugging your bottom lip into your mouth without an answer for him. “I’ve seen you bring homework over before, so what changed?”

“I just,” you swallow, try to wet your uncomfortably dry mouth before managing out, “I knew I was gonna have a shitty time with this assignment and didn’t really want your brother and Jean screaming at a screen making it _even_ shittier.”

Zeke hums, and when you meet his stare again, you can tell that he has something else he wants to say, probably the same thought you’re having: _you could have always just brought it up to his room._

But, you also know the argument to that: you wouldn’t have actually gotten anything done, too busy admiring or kissing or fucking Zeke to care about any amount of schoolwork.

And, he seems to realize this because he snickers and lowers his head, his face hidden for a moment as light hair hangs over his glasses. 

When he looks back up, his expression is softer, and he agrees with a short, “That’s fair. They’ve been especially fucking rowdy tonight, so I can’t blame you.”

_Good, good._

“Was just worried you were nervous or something.”

_Shit._

You hide your cringe but feel your face heat horribly, don’t even know how to respond to that, but thankfully you don’t have to as the front door to the apartment slams, the familiar sounds of Ymir coming home and routinely shedding everything on her person sending a panicked buzz through your system.

“Definitely not nervous,” you breathe, forcing a smile, then tilt your head and tell him, “Hey, my cousin just got home with dinner, so I’m gonna eat, but _thank you_ for helping me tonight.” You can at least sound genuine about this. “I really appreciate it, Zeke.”

He waves a hand as if he were actually right in front of you, casually shrugging, “Anytime. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

The breath you suck in once the call is ended is monumental, your chest expanding more than it has in the last forty-five minutes, and you toss your phone to the foot of the bed and lay against your pillows, blinking up at your ceiling.

You can already smell fried chicken wafting through the apartment, no doubt picked up on Ymir’s drive home, but all it does is nauseate you, your stomach in knots, any sign of appetite completely gone. 

This is getting out of hand. It has been since the first night. Your entire being—body, mind, and soul—feels lit on fire, like you need to scream or cry or come (not helpful). 

But, there’s also this deadly calm right at your core, a smooth numbness that’s sometimes able to convince you everything will be okay, just ride it out. It’s _that_ energy that you fall into when you’re around Zeke, like it thrives off his charm and wraps you up inside of it. 

Zeke isn’t here, though, and you are alone with your thoughts, groan when your phone vibrates because that pit in your stomach only grows.

You could just ignore it. You are “eating dinner” after all. Naturally your curiosity quickly wins out, making you sit up and reach for your phone. 

The name you look down at isn’t the one you’re expecting, though. It doesn’t inspire the same fluttery feeling in your stomach (and pussy) which is strange because just a couple weeks ago, you had been in the throes of puppy-like infatuation.

**Ian** 💞, **_5:18PM_**  
_hey you wanna come over tomorrow? feel like i havent seen you in a long time_

Your response is instant: _yeah, what time?_

Because maybe… Maybe you can ground yourself with this much safer option, this nice, younger college boy who obviously likes you, who you liked a lot but simply forgot about. 

It’s cruel, really. Ian deserves a fighting chance.

And, so do you.

∆

Ian lives in the dorms at the college downtown. You get there at around seven in the evening, smile when you see the boy who is _supposed_ to be your crush, suddenly reminded why. Tall and thin, Ian is cute with his high cheekbones and boyish smile. He’s still growing into himself, obviously has a few years on the boys you go to school with but lacks that easy confidence Z—

 _No_.

He invites you in, stepping to the side and waiting to close the door. There are two beds in the cramped space, but before you can ask, he tells you, “Roommate’s back home for a few days. Family stuff.”

You nod, glance around to take in the messy desks, the posters on the walls, the pile of clothes sticking out of a half-open closet. It’s all very…

Underwhelming.

It’s an odd experience, knowing that you should be nervous but _aren’t_. You can almost feel the empty cavity of your abdomen where those butterflies should be, their flapping wings nowhere to be found. Ian probably has plans for today, the two of you alone in his room for however long, and you’ve prepared accordingly because it’s what you’ve wanted all along, right? You wanted to impress him. You wanted to be good for him. That’s why you did what you did in the first place.

Breathing in deeply, you smile, “So, what d’you wanna do?”

Ian scratches the back of his head, shrugs his shoulders. “I was thinking maybe just watch something—catch up on things, you know?”

“Okay.”

You toe off your shoes, follow him when he steps over to his bed after grabbing a console controller from the TV stand. There isn’t much space on the twin mattress, but Ian leans against the wall, making as much room for you as he can. Still, it’s impossible not to be pressed hip to hip, and you already know in what direction you’re headed, how the two of you will end up before the evening is over. 

“So, I have Netflix… Hulu…” You watch as he toggles through the options, having no real opinion of your own. “I’ve just been making my way through the _Fast and Furious_ movies—”

“That’s fine. You can choose one of those.” 

He does, reaching over you to set his controller on the nightstand on your other side. As he pulls back, you look closely at him, young and fresh-faced, and something in your stomach drops. 

“I’m glad you invited me over,” you tell him.

“I’m glad you came.”

He gets a little more comfortable, makes a dramatic show of putting his arm around your shoulders and tugging you closer, and you giggle for him, willing away the tension in your body.

This isn’t new. You and Ian have cuddled before, have shared kisses. You’ve been ‘talking’ for over a month now, though you’re surprised he didn’t just drop you entirely considering your recent radio silence.

You met through mutual friends—Eren knows Petra who knows Rico who knows Ian. A party here, a chance run-in there, and now, here you are. 

The movie holds little interest to you, fast cars and too much testosterone for you to be able to appreciate, so you spend about half of it mapping out what your next move should be. Should you make the first one? Would he appreciate you taking the lead? Are you qualified for it?

_“Like this?”_

_“Yeah, just like that… Fuck, so good. You’re being so good for me…”_

Heat travels down your spine, spreading to your hips, your center, and yes—yes, you can do this. You have the experience now.

You scoot impossibly closer, rest your head against Ian’s shoulder and hum when he turns to place a chaste kiss at your hairline. Smiling, you try to take him in, his smell, his wiry arm pressed against you, his long hair tickling your cheek. You want to cement it, drive out any thoughts of blond hair and blue eyes, of confident smirks and praises.

Tilting your chin up, you kiss Ian softly, lips turning up as he sighs contentedly. He waits for several seconds before testing the waters with his tongue, but you gladly accept the intrusion, thinking of his mouth and his face, _Ian Ian Ian, not Ze—_

Both of you shift on the bed, moving further down to lay on your sides. Ian hooks your leg over his hip, not so subtly grinding against your heat as he starts sucking on your neck. 

He's a little sloppy but very enthusiastic, teeth and tongue no doubt leaving marks, and that thought has your stomach rolling. 

_"You just look good bruised."_

Taking his face in your hands, you guide Ian back to your mouth, engaging him in a much more heated kiss as you use your leg to draw him closer to you.

His proportions are off—hips too narrow, legs too long. Your fingers get tangled in his hair rather than simply carding through wavy strands, and when he pulls back to look at you, you're almost startled by his dark irises. 

_You can do this. You can do this. Just stop thinking about **him**._

"Can I, uh…" Ian bites his lip and glances away as his cheeks darken a shade. "Can I try something?"

Lifting an eyebrow, you play coy, "Try what?" but the way he's slowly inching down your body, pushing you to lay on your back, answers your question. 

"You haven't really… done much, have you?" He breathes against your belly, lifting your shirt to mouth over prickling skin. 

"I, uh—no." 

It's not a complete lie. Your eyes have been opened, but you're still lacking sexual knowledge in terms of quantity, relatively new to this realm. 

Ian situates himself between your thighs, pinches the material of your leggings and pulls them down over your hips. He doesn't ask, just bites his lower lip, and admires the parts of you he's never seen before. 

Your gut stirs uncomfortably, a lump forming in your throat as anticipation bubbles up from your chest. Anticipation and… something else. 

"Just trust me, okay?" He says, lowering to his chest and gripping the meat of your legs to spread them further. "It's gonna feel really good."

Using fingers to open you up for him, Ian makes the first pass over your entrance with his tongue, and you're able to put a name to that other feeling: dread. 

Because it feels wrong. It feels forced. He's too gentle, almost experimenting with you rather than _going down_. You let out little noises here and there, more for his benefit than for yours, shift beneath him and buck when he finally finds your clit. 

He's not bad. He isn't hurting you. He's just… 

Not Zeke. 

You toss an arm over your eyes, arching your back and groaning. Why why why can't you stop thinking about him? Just for _one god damn second_. You didn't come here to compare; you came here to forget. 

"Feel good?" Ian murmurs against your thigh, and you nod. 

He can't seem to keep a steady rhythm as he licks into you, too busy trying different things, trying to provoke a reaction, but the only time he elicits a genuine response from you is when he begins to slide a long finger into your hole. 

At last, the image in your head swims and dissipates, replaced by blissful nothingness as Ian starts pumping his hand back and forth. He doesn't curl the digits or aim for any particular spot, but the fact that he's inside of you is enough to at least start scratching that itch. 

You think about warning him of the mess you're likely to make, no—the mess you absolutely will make with the proper stimulation. Will Ian actually be able to get you there, though? And, if he does, will he mind the squirting? 

_"Most guys find it hot. I certainly do."_

God dammit. 

You wriggle your hips, desperate to feel more of Ian, to feel him deeper and thicker. You want to be full again. You want— 

"I think—" you pant, dropping your arm but keeping your eyes squeezed shut. "I wanna—I want you to…"

He moves quickly, climbing back over you to kiss you as he wrenches open the drawer to his nightstand and fumbles around in it. 

You don't feel nearly as wet as you have been, but it should be fine with lube. That's what you've been led to believe. You'll be fine. 

Ian grabs a little bottle and sets it on the side table then stands up to quickly rid himself of his shirt and pants. Sitting up, you tug your own top over your head, vaguely hear the sound of a cap opening, and when your line of sight is clear again, you find Ian spreading lube over his cock. 

It's nice—a little thin, but long with a dark red tip. It would more than do the job you want it to, but—

"Uh," you cough, glance up from his dick and prompt, "Condom?" 

He stops mid stroke, looking a lot like a deer caught in headlights, then tells you, "I don't use 'em. Doesn't feel as good." 

And, for a moment, you just blink at him, taken aback by his honesty but offended that he thinks this would be okay with you. 

"Well, I'm not on birth control yet so…"

He places a knee on the bed and leans over you, trying to be smooth as he catches you in a kiss that you quickly pull away from. 

"It's okay, babe. I'll pull out, I promise."

Your stomach lurches. 

Last time, in the car, it was different. Both of you forgot, too lost in the heat of the moment. 

But now, you're of completely sound mind, know that this isn't what you want and have the time and power to say it. 

"Ian, I'd really rather you just put on a condom." 

You push gently at his chest, making him straighten up, but he still pouts and grumbles, "The layer ruins the sensation. I just wanna—" 

Your patience snaps in a flash, "Alright," and you reach over to grab your shirt, tugging it back on. 

"Wait, wait—"

"No." Moving around him, you retrieve your leggings and stand, pulling them up hastily and muttering, "You obviously have expectations that I can't meet, so fuck it. I'm not about to get myself into trouble just 'cause you can't stand the thought of being a little less sensitive." 

Your heart is thundering in your chest, hands shaking as you dig through your purse for your keys. 

You're not being a bitch, right? It's a safety issue! You don't know where he's been just like he doesn't know where you have. 

Ian calls your name, struggling with his pants and choking out apologies, but you just wave him off, slipping your feet into your shoes and walking out. You almost feel bad for him. Maybe if you would have just let your request sink in or explained yourself better, he would have understood. 

In the end, though, you're pretty sure he just wanted to get his dick wet, probably figured you were too innocent to know better. 

Fuck that. 

You have to wait ten minutes for your Uber, but the ride back to the apartment is mostly silent save for the radio station your driver chooses when you fail to voice your own preference. Your brain is a battleground of emotions. Pride for making the decision best suited for you, sorrow for likely ruining this almost relationship with Ian, and guilt for thinking about someone else the entire time you were in his dorm. The two of you would have probably been doomed if you managed to go through with fucking him, anyway. Just saved yourself a lot of trouble. 

You're relieved when you make it back home, tip your driver generously then ascend the concrete steps to your apartment. You know Marco is out with Jean and figure Ymir has probably invited her friends over since you told her you would also be away for the evening. You didn't give her any details, but… She knows. 

You can already hear loud laughter before you even turn your keys in the door—Reiner, you think—and it brings a small smile to your face, only for it to fall when you walk in to find the same group from the restaurant a couple weeks ago. 

The Exact. Same. Group. 

"Hey!" Galli is standing before anyone else, avoiding all the feet and knees in his path to you, then slinging an arm around you and taking a sip of the beer in his other hand. "Ymir, I thought you said your cousin was out tonight." 

On the couch, Ymir cocks her head and squints at you. "She was supposed to be. What gives?" There's a bong in her lap, a tray on the table covered in little piles of ground up weed. Ymir doesn't like smoking around you and Marco, afraid of setting a bad example or something, but you really don't mind. 

It's hard to focus on her, however. You're barely even aware of Galli hanging off you, waiting for your answer. All you can focus on are the pale eyes staring at you from the chair in the corner. 

You feel nauseous, phantom touches from Ian playing out on your body as you stare at Zeke, and all you can do is grit your teeth and shake your head. 

"Just… didn't work out," you finally tell Ymir, shrugging away from Galli and making your way to the back hallway. 

Ymir must pass her piece off to someone else because she's up and following you. 

"It was a guy, right?" You grimace. "Was he a creep or something? Do I need to kick his ass?" 

You snort, turning just as you reach your doorway and grinning at the older girl. "He was just being a college boy, 'Mir."

"So, I _do_ need to kick his ass."

"No."

She doesn't seem convinced. You drawl, "I'm _fine._ Just gonna shower," then slip into your room, shutting the door behind you and resting your head against it. 

Your hands are even less steady now than when you were angry, breaths fast and shallow. You had been confused initially— _what the fuck is he doing here_ —but, in truth, you should have put the pieces together the night Zeke brought you home. He was out with the whole group minus Ymir, for one, then made the comment about his friend living in the same complex. 

It was all spelled out for you; you just hadn't taken the time to read.

❀

Zeke can hear the running water from where he's sitting in the den that's far too small for this many people. It's setting his teeth on edge, making his neck stiff and his skin hot.

You're here. Or, really, he's here. This is your home. He had unknowingly walked into your territory, and now he's paying the price—silently plagued by the thought of your life here. What are you really like? What kind of secrets could he glean from your personal space? And, what do you look like in the privacy of your room, your shower—

He knows the answer to that one already—stunning—remembers all too well the way water streamed over your curves, how droplets hung from your eyelashes and pouty lips. Zeke already knows what you look like when wet (in more ways than one), and sitting here in your apartment is bringing every image he committed to memory back to the forefront of his mind. 

The way you moved for him, how he made you moan and cry, what you looked like spread open and dripping and what you sounded like panting his name… 

Zeke kicks an ankle over his opposite thigh, resituates himself before anyone notices the state he's in which is _bothered_. 

Ymir said you had been with a guy tonight. Zeke had heard it when your cousin followed you into the hallway. It didn't work out, you told her in a stiff voice, but was your tone so short because you were upset, or was it the shock of seeing Zeke in your living room? 

He shakes his foot, flexes his hand, pops his neck. Reiner and Galliard are getting loud about something Zeke has been tuning out since before you even got back. Bertl and Annie are on the couch next to Ymir, the three of them passing the bong back and forth and leaning to hand it off to Marcel every so often. 

Zeke only indulges every so often, typically prefers mushrooms for the mood boost or coke for the energy. It isn't often he wants to smoke, and he made that apparent coming over tonight, rolling his eyes at Reiner when he had tried to pass him a blunt and flipping him off when he had snickered and jabbed, _"Suit yourself, gramps."_

Zeke feels like he's constantly surrounded by immaturity. Between his friends group and Eren's, it's no wonder he's been known to get cranky. 

That's why you were such a surprise, having always blended in as one of the dumbass kids, but oh, you are so much more. You still have that hopeful twinkle in your eye like most people your age do, but it's slightly dulled—just enough to notice. You've experienced life in a different way from your friends. You're not careless like the others. You have drive, a force pushing you to do better. At everything. You want knowledge and experience. 

And, Zeke wants to give it to you. 

Maybe he's trying to capture his youth before it slips away from him entirely. Or, maybe he's just a horny guy presented with a beautiful, willing young girl. Either way, Zeke knows that he is infatuated. Whether it's with you or just the idea of you is also still up for debate. 

A door down the hallway opens, and Zeke has to make a conscious effort to not to turn and look for you at the sound. No, he stays absolutely still, forces his gaze to Bertholdt who's droning on about law school even though no one but Annie cares. She's more or less in his lap, petting his hair as she listens to him speak lazily. Reiner is on the ground at their feet, arguing with Galliard who's perched on the armrest of the chair his brother is sitting in. 

Everything and nothing is going on at the same time, and Zeke doesn't care about any of it. As soon as he catches sight of you sliding into the kitchen, he's on his feet, uttering, "Water," when Ymir looks up at him curiously. 

He passes into the conjoined room, stops at the threshold to admire the view of you balancing on your tiptoes as you reach for a bag of chips on top of the refrigerator. You teeter for a moment, the snack just a little too far back, then drop back to the flats of your feet and sigh. 

Zeke makes sure he's wearing his best smirk before asking, "Need help?" 

You spin, jaw dropping slightly as you stare at him with wide doe eyes. The shocked expression makes his cock twitch in his pants, and Zeke doesn't wait for a response, just walks over and easily grabs the bag you had failed to retrieve. 

Thanks,” you breathe, moving to take the chips, but Zeke holds them out behind his back for a moment, grin widening when you pout. “Wha—”

“Actually, how about instead of eating shitty chips, you come get a shitty burger with me,” he suggests, and the way you blink up at him speechless lights him up. “Come on, it sounds like you had a rough night.”

Your eyes narrow into something more confused. “How do you know about my night?”

“Heard you and Ymir talking,” he answers easily, squinting when he catches sight of something right at the collar of your shirt. Chancing a glance over his shoulder to make sure the two of you are still alone, Zeke brushes hair away from your throat, hooks a finger under the material, and pulls to reveal what’s very obviously a hickey.

His chest is suddenly bursting with a possessive heat, and Zeke has to fight to keep from sucking his teeth or scoffing or looking displeased in any capacity because he really has no right to be. 

"Couldn't have been that rough, I guess," he mumbles, trying to keep bitterness from lacing his words.

Seeing a mark like this, left in plain view for anyone to find—for Zeke to find—it makes his gums throb, makes him want to sink his teeth into you, cover that mark and leave behind more of his own. 

You reach up and gently push his hand away, rubbing at the hickey as your face darkens a shade. 

"It wasn't… ideal," you say with a frown. 

"Usually isn't," Zeke chuckles. He knows damn well your expectations are skewed because of him, and that thought dulls his jealousy and replaces it with a certain smugness. "Now, seriously, pack a bag. We can grab real food, and then you can hang out with Eren and whoever else he's with." 

He watches you nibble on your bottom lip in thought, wants to tug it into his own mouth but keeps his distance as he turns to put the chips back on the fridge. 

"It'll be good for you to relax with friends," he continues. "Plus, your cousin will be able to stop worrying about being a bad role model or whatever."

Nodding now, you force a self-conscious smile. "Yeah, you're right."

"Usually am," he smacks, pointing a finger gun at you, and the giggle that spills past your lips makes him smirk again. Responsive little thing. 

"Okay, lemme go change into… Not this." You both look down at your oversized t-shirt and little lounge shorts. You had probably resigned yourself to a night spent cooped up in your room when you had gotten out of the shower. 

Zeke has better plans, though. 

He shoos you along then walks back into the crowded den, grabbing his keys off the coffee table. Everyone is involved in conversation, and Zeke doesn't have the time or patience to wait for a break in all the stoned conspiracies, so he simply walks up behind Ymir on the couch and plants a hand on the crown of her head, tilting it so that she's staring up at him with bloodshot eyes. 

"Do you mind, Jaeger?" 

"Not even a little bit," he deadpans before informing her, "I'm gonna bring your cousin over to the house to chill with Eren and company. Cool?" 

She shrugs. "Yeah, if that's what she wants to do, I don't give a fuck."

Zeke hums, pushes Ymir's head forward, then walks away to post up next to the front door.

You reappear a few minutes later clad in a familiar ensemble—leggings and Zeke's own hoodie. You also have a knit beanie pulled over your wet hair, looking seven shades of adorable when you tug it down to cover your ears as well. 

"'Mir, Zeke's taking me to—" 

"I know, I know. Don't do anything dumb." 

You wave to everyone else in the room then shove your feet into a pair of beat up Vans and nod at Zeke who opens the door and ushers you out. Once it's closed again, he takes your little bag from your shoulder, holding it himself and suppressing a satisfied grin when you stare at him as if he just gave you the moon. 

"Thanks." 

"Of course." 

He helps you into the Bronco, makes sure your legs are tucked in before shutting the door, then walks to the other side. 

Even in the crisp air, Zeke can feel that he's warm, buzzing with too much energy that he can't put to good use yet. The last time—the only time—you were in his car was when he brought you home and had you ride him. Only a week has passed, but it feels like far too long since he's been inside you. Zeke has half a mind to suggest another round, but considering what you had to deal with earlier, he doubts you would be receptive to the idea, may have already had your fill for the day. 

It leaves a bad taste in Zeke's mouth, one he hopes a burger will get rid of, so he picks a playlist on his phone, the one he made for you, actually, then pulls out of the complex, heading to the nearest fast food joint. 

"So, do you wanna talk about it?" He ventures after a few moment's silence, not totally sure if _he_ even wants to, but there is a morbid curiosity in the back of his head that needs to be sated. 

You stare ahead, pushing your lips out in a pout as you contemplate. "There's not really a lot to say."

"Was this the guy? Like, _the_ guy?" 

The one you wanted to be good for. The one you came to Zeke for. The one who started this. 

"Yeah," you exhale, rub a hand over your face, and at first, Zeke thinks the little hiccup you let out is a quiet sob, but when your shoulders start to shake harder, he glances over to find you laughing into your palms. 

"That bad, huh?" 

"I mean," you snort amusedly. "I don't have much to compare it to, and I think—before it went wrong—he was genuinely trying his best—"

"How'd it go wrong?" 

You scoff, probably roll your eyes, and drop your arms to cross over your chest. "College boy thought he was too good for a condom." The annoyance in your voice is cute, as if you hadn't let Zeke fuck you raw a week ago. 

"Anyway, I asked him to, he said he didn't wanna be _desensitized_ , so I left."

Zeke clicks his tongue. "What a good girl."

He hears your surprised inhale, sees the way you shift in your seat, and he has to wonder—did you think of him while with this boy? Did his face ever cross your mind? Did you remember his hands on you while someone else touched you. 

He thinks he knows the answer, but he also knows better than to ask right now. Maybe later. Just to watch you squirm. 

Zeke pulls into a drive-up spot and tells you to get whatever you want, giving you an unimpressed look when you tell him you’ll just have a kid's burger. 

"What? I'm not super hungry," you defend yourself. 

He waves a hand, not about to tease you for it, and orders the food, tacking on a milkshake for good measure. When it all arrives, you eye the shake with silent interest, and Zeke laughs, unwrapping his burger and taking a bite before grumbling around it, "S'for you, babe." He swallows. "You had a shitty time with a dude. That usually calls for ice cream, right?" 

You scrunch your nose, a cute, snarl-like expression that makes Zeke think _things_ , but he keeps them to himself, just relaxes in his seat and chows down. 

You slowly begin to take little bites, bobbing your head to the song that's playing until eventually you speak up. 

"I don't know why I was so surprised to see you at the apartment. I should've figured it out after that night at the restaurant."

"Just like I probably should've put together the fact that Ymir's your cousin," he adds, and you flash a tiny smile. "Didn't click for some reason."

"How long have you known all of them?" 

"Uh, I've been friends with Reiner and Bertl for a few years, met at a metal show and just didn't really part ways," he tells you, remembering that time long ago when he'd almost beat the shit out of the brawny blond for accidentally pulling him into the middle of a mosh pit. Luckily, his taller counterpart was good at smoothing things over (fucking lawyers) and talked Zeke down, bought him a drink, and the rest is history. 

He tells you all this and a little more, enjoying having your undivided attention. "They knew Marcel and Pock who were tight with Annie and Ymir. You get the gist."

You make a thoughtful noise and nod, and Zeke figures it's time to ask a question that's been on his mind since he took you home from work: "How long have you and Marco lived with her?" 

You're quiet for a few seconds, lowering your half-eaten burger to your lap before asking, "You wanna get into this?" It isn't laced with sass or attitude, a genuine question if Zeke is ready to take on your burden. 

"Yeah, if you don't mind."

"Well, uh, the answer is about two years."

"And, the explanation as to why?" 

He watches as you slide your tongue over your front teeth almost as if counting them, eyes cast toward the roof of the car. 

"We grew up about twenty minutes away, little nuclear family and all. 'Mir wasn't super close with her parents, especially after coming out, so she was over a lot. Cool older cousin. Marco and I adored her. Still do. But anyway…" You take a deep breath before continuing. "Mom and Dad went out one night when I was seventeen. Ymir was over hanging out. And, then at around one in the morning there was a cop at our door telling us we needed to go to the hospital 'cause they'd been in an accident."

Zeke swears to himself. He had a feeling it was something like this, but he'd hoped against it. 

"They both died that morning within, like, fifteen minutes of each other. We thought our aunt and uncle would get custody since they were next of kin or whatever, but Ymir was twenty-three at the time and straight up went to court for us. She told the judge about how her parents kicked her out as a teenager and everything, and since Marco and I were older, they ruled we would all be able to survive together without any real issue." 

It's a lot to take in, and there's an odd sort of ache right behind Zeke's sternum that makes him wrap the last quarter of his burger up and stick it back in the paper bag it came in. 

You don't seem anywhere close to crying, but your utterly resigned tone is enough to tell him that you probably ran out of tears a long time ago. 

"Is that why you're a year late graduating?" He asks. 

"Yeah. Marco threw himself into school and sports to cope, but I just kinda… Stopped… Existing? I was still hosting at Garrison's for money, but I started flunking junior year and eventually stopped showing up altogether. Ymir talked to the counselor and administration who pretty much allowed me to take a gap year for extenuating circumstances. Then, I went back last fall."

You're too young to be carrying this kind of baggage, to be this damaged. But, Zeke knows it's what makes you hold yourself the way you do. Yeah, some people are just naturally more mature even as children, and maybe you were one of those, but your parents dying aged you. You may be naïve when it comes to a few things, but hard life experiences will go a long way in educating a person. 

Zeke is being genuine when he tells you, "I'm really sorry you had to go through that—" corrects himself, "—are going through that." 

"Thanks. I'm just glad I still have my brother and Ymir."

Zeke has to admit he has a newfound respect for the woman he previously thought to be a little obnoxious—crass and callous for seemingly no reason. Turns out there's more to her than a potential drug problem and a _"desire for mad pussy"_. 

Your dinner sits forgotten in your lap, but you finally make a move for the milkshake, taking a sip and showing a tiny smile around the straw. Zeke goes out on a limb and slides his right hand over the back of your neck, is able to stroke over the pulse point on the side of your throat with an outstretched thumb, and you shut your eyes, shoulders going slack as you relax into his touch. 

"Listen," he pauses before fessing up to some slightly misleading information he fed you at your apartment. "Eren isn't at the house tonight. He's with Mikasa at the weird little blond kid's—"

"Armin," you laugh.

Zeke doesn't really care about his name, though he should have learned it a long time ago. "Moving on. I have no problem dropping you off over there, but…"

"Honestly," you cut him off with a deep breath. "If you don't mind, I'd rather hang out with you. I don't know if I could handle your brother's… volume. Or Meeks' perpetual puppy-dog eyes for him."

The corner of Zeke's mouth twitches upward. "I was so hoping you'd say that."

He puts the Bronco in reverse and pulls out from his spot, a little too happy to be driving both of you to his house instead of just himself. Inside, he throws away the leftovers from your late dinner, tells you to make yourself at home, then goes upstairs to his room to change into a pair of mesh athletic shorts and an old college t-shirt. You seemed to have had the same idea, in similar, comfortable attire, though your bottoms are much shorter. Looking through the collection of movies next to the TV, you don't notice him, and Zeke settles on the couch, content to just watch you for a few minutes. 

He's still ruminating on the sad tale you told him in the car, starting to feel a little bad for getting involved with you. In the end, he knows you should be with someone your own age, that he's taking advantage to some extent, but… 

The way you look at him, how you regard him with respect he doesn't deserve. It's intoxicating. You probably don't even realize you do it, but it's written all over your pretty face, and Zeke can't get enough of it. 

You pull out a title and crouch in front of the TV to turn on his PS4. It gives him a fantastic view of your ass, fabric stretching over it and making Zeke's mouth water. You turn on the console, grab a controller, then straighten back up and figure out the home screen, navigating to the disc drive and selecting it. 

When you turn, you look mildly surprised to see him sitting there. 

"Don't mind me. Just being a creep," he admits, watches you take on a nervous expression. Knowing what's probably going on in your brain, he adds, "Don't worry. I didn't bring you here to fool around again. Figure you've had enough of that for the day."

You let out a relieved sigh, and he just barely picks up on your thanks before you walk over and plop down next to him. 

He easily recognizes the title screen of the movie you've picked— _Fellowship of the Ring_ —feels himself get pulled even further into your orbit and utters, "Good choice." 

The movie starts, but only half of Zeke's attention is on it, too aware of you, of your body heat, of your chest rising and falling with every breath you take. He eventually leans on the armrest, spreading out to take up more of the couch with high hopes that you'll follow his lead. Your gaze flicks to him every so often until Zeke scoots into the back cushions and nods to the extra space in front of him. You have a short, internal debate but give in, lying down with your back to his chest. 

He waits for another few minutes before allowing himself to drape his arm over your waist, and you don't complain, moving closer to him in a way that makes Zeke hold back a groan. 

The floral scent of your shampoo fogs his senses, and he lets his eyes drift to the jut of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. You aren't wearing a bra, and Zeke cringes when he feels himself stirring in his shorts, right up against your ass. 

The only hint you show of noticing is a tiny grin, like you're satisfied with his reaction to your body, and he has to chuckle through his nose. 

So much for not fucking you tonight. 

You're both still for some time, but you get restless and push back against Zeke in a not-so-subtle manner. He's half hard already, lowers his face to your neck and warns you, "Don't start something you can't finish, little girl."

It only encourages you, and you poke your tongue between your teeth playfully and grind against him harder. 

Gripping your hip, Zeke grinds right back, cursing the material separating him from your bare skin before realizing he can remedy that problem. 

"Fuck it. Get up," he commands, and you're rolling from your place in the blink of an eye, Zeke quickly following and gently pushing you so that you're not between the couch and the coffee table. 

As soon as you're both clear of it, he takes you by the shoulder and turns you around, then bends to pick you up by the thighs and toss you over his shoulder.

You let out a surprised squeal followed by a giggle, kicking your feet a little as he makes his way toward the staircase. However, he pauses about halfway, eyes darting to the hallway that leads to the master bedroom—bigger and, more importantly, closer. He doesn't really care that it so happens to be Eren's room, switching his course and carrying you through the open door. 

It's about as messy as Zeke predicted it would be, but he doubts either of you will be paying attention to anything other than the bed. 

You bounce when he throws you onto it, watch with huge eyes as Zeke strips his shirt off then covers your body with his. 

The first kiss already has him panting, a groan rumbling from his throat when you grab a tight fistful of his hair. You open your mouth for him, eager for his tongue, already arching your back and wrapping your legs around his waist, and Zeke has to know—he _has_ to—so he finally asks, "Did you think of me earlier today? When you were with him, did I cross your mind?" 

"Too often," you confess in a whisper, and his spine tingles when you go even further to tell him, "I couldn't get you out of my fucking head. He was literally eating me out, and all I could think about was you."

Zeke is very suddenly more jealous than he's possibly ever been, but he's also extremely turned on by the thought. Another man's tongue buried in your pussy, and you just couldn't help but think of him. 

He smirks against your lips, teases, "Yeah? You want me again?" 

"Yes, so bad." 

He licks into your mouth, sucks on your tongue, then pulls back. "Wanna feel me in your tight little cunt again?" 

You nod furiously, staring up at him with so much desperation, it makes Zeke leak pre into his shorts.

First thing's first, he thinks, tugging on your shirt until you pull it over your head. He immediately locates the hickey on your neck and all but attacks it, biting the bruised flesh until you whine and scratch down his back. He sucks it into his mouth, bringing more blood to the surface of your skin and working at it until he's positive the first mark is completely covered with his own.

"God," you huff. "You said you weren't territorial, and yet…"

"That was before I knew what it felt like to see you marked up by someone else."

You shiver, and Zeke works a hand between the two of you, sliding it into the waistband of your shorts and panties to dip a finger between your folds. 

Fuck, you're already so wet. He doesn't think he's ever affected a girl the way he affects you. It makes him absolutely _feral_. 

"Get these off before I tear them off," he growls, tugging your shorts down before you even have a chance to. 

You lift your hips to help, and Zeke flings the material somewhere over his shoulder then stands to take his own off. He rids himself of his glasses too, placing them on Eren's cluttered nightstand, then rips open the drawer and searches blindly through the contents until he feels foil against his fingers. Typical teenage boy. 

Licking his lips, Zeke tosses the little package so that it lands on your stomach. You pick it up, lifting an eyebrow. 

"I want you to roll it on my cock yourself," he tells you. "Consider it practice. And, maybe closure for earlier."

Nodding, you tear into the wrapper with a canine then carefully pull the latex from it. He watches you study it for a couple seconds, then raise to your knees and move toward where Zeke's positioned himself at the side of the bed. 

Before you press the condom to his him, you duck forward and wrap your lips around his cockhead, and Zeke fucking _leaks_ into your mouth, coating your tongue with pre-cum and gasping your name. 

"Jesus Christ, you're gonna kill me."

He gives a short thrust, making you drop your jaw and take him deeper. Fisting a hand in your hair, he slides in until he's against the back of your throat, and that praise is out of his mouth before he knows it. 

_"Good fucking girl."_

Your eyes roll into the back of your head, and Zeke sees the way you shift your hips, remembers that you're dripping for him, then pulls out. 

"Alright, put it on, baby, come on."

You obey, struggling for a bit, but he just watches, admiring the way your hands look so small around his length. 

When you finish, Zeke pumps himself a couple times, pushing you to lay back and grabbing an extra pillow. He slides a hand under your back and lifts you without a problem, situating the padding underneath, then gets between your legs. 

Eyes hazy, you question, "Lube?" and to prove you don't really need it, Zeke pushes a finger into your pussy, meeting no resistance whatsoever. 

"O-oh my god," you stutter, another breath forced from your chest when he slides a second one in and hooks them to press against your g-spot. 

"You really think we need lube, sweetheart?" 

He massages your walls, able to feel tissue swell under his touch, fluid already pooling around your slit. 

"No, no we don't, okay, I want you, please please—"

Zeke removes his hand, wastes absolutely no time as he lines himself up and works his cock into you. Your head falls back. Your eyes roll aimlessly. Your jaw hangs open. 

Zeke is in _heaven_ , lost in the way you squeeze him tighter than he's felt you, sweet little cunt so perfect for him. He buries himself inside you knowing he's too big, that you're holding your fucking breath because you're so full of cock, but he can't help himself, doesn't stop until he's up against your god damn cervix. 

You're silent, but your body is twitching on the mattress, near convulsing as you try to accommodate him. He should pull back, should serve gentle, shallow thrusts as your walls flutter for him, but he wants to be in your guts, wants you to feel him in your stomach, wants to leave a fucking impression on your insides. 

Zeke grins when he notices your face is just a little too dark, realizes you still haven't taken in any air and reaches up to pat your face. 

"Come on, baby, breathe. You've gotta breathe."

He pulls back just enough, and you gasp like you've been drowning, eyes finally finding his again but so fuck-drunk, he wonders if you're even really seeing him. 

It doesn't matter. He's about to make you so stupid on his cock, you probably won't be able to focus for days. 

Looking down, Zeke relishes the sight of his hips almost flush against you, the fact that you're capable of taking all of him, and when he slides out further, he sees that you've already creamed all over him. 

"Mm, you must like a little bit of pain, making a mess like this." 

He gathers the thick discharge on the pad of his finger, uses it to coat your clit and rubs over it relentlessly. 

His hips are moving again, forcing himself into you as he toys with the little bud. You spasm around him and reach a shaky hand down to try to push his away. 

"T-too much, Zeke. Can't—Can't—" 

"Yeah, you can." He leans down to kiss you, then murmurs—threatens—"I'm not gonna stop until you come." 

You whimper, but the way your cunt opens up for him just informs Zeke that the sense of helplessness you're probably feeling is turning you on. 

Straightening again, he continues to fuck into you, swiping over your clit quickly, fascinated by the way squirt is starting to dribble from the tiny hole. 

He's far past overstimulating you, rough thrusts hitting your g-spot then that back wall. It's pushing you up and down on the bed, making your tits bounce. Zeke pinches one of your nipples then strokes over it with a lighter finger, apparently just what you needed because your eyes open again, revealing the way they're glistening with tears, and the first one falls just as your muscles lock up. 

You let out an honest-to-god sob as your orgasm hits you, words thick and hard to understand, but Zeke listens closely and almost comes when he realizes you're pleading for more. 

_"Don't stop, god, oh my god, can feel you so—so—deep."_

Zeke does abandon your clit, but it's to grip your hips and drive into you. He throws his head back, grunts toward the ceiling, and tries to give you all he has. 

You pulse around him, swollen and tight, and he knows he won't last much longer, not with the way you're begging for him, not with the way you're _quaking_ for him. 

Falling forward on his forearms, he crushes his mouth to yours, gives several long thrusts, then breaks away as he comes so hard his vision whites out. You surge upward, shoving your tongue back between his lips like you're not finished with him. 

His pace slows, eventually stopping entirely, but the kiss continues long after, the two of you panting into each other until Zeke comes to terms with the fact that it is not an efficient way to catch his breath. 

He pulls out with a regretful groan, and you release a shaky sigh, still twitching. 

"You're gonna feel that tomorrow."

"I am—" another breath, "—well aware."

Zeke rolls to the side but keeps a hand on your thigh, rubbing circles on your warm skin. 

"I think you might be a little bit of a masochist," he muses.

"Maybe. Or, maybe it was just the headspace I was in."

It's a likely possibility. Between your encounter with College Boy and the depressing conversation in his car, Zeke wouldn't be at all surprised if you were in the mood to be hurt. 

"It's something we can explore later," he says, and you agree with a hum. 

It takes some time for either of you to start moving, but Zeke reminds you to go to the bathroom, waiting for the door to open again before he joins you inside. 

He runs a hot shower like he did that first night, flushes his condom down the toilet despite knowing he really shouldn't, then steps into the large, tiled stall behind you. 

Your head is tilted toward the spray, letting it hit you right in the face. As soon as Zeke wraps his arms around you, you fall back against him, legs barely beneath you. He isn't sure if it's because they gave out or because you simply need to be held, but he doesn't mind, keeps you close to his chest. 

Afterward, Zeke gathers all his clothes as well as yours then leads you from Eren's room and up to his own. He isn't entirely sure when his brother will be getting home and would hate for him to stumble upon the two of you in his bed. 

You're both relatively quiet as you wind down for the night. Zeke turns the lights off but flicks the TV into a music channel. Back in pajamas, you lay close to him in bed, wrapped in his sheets as well as his loose grip. 

Just as he's starting to doze off, Zeke is roused by your quiet voice, timid as the night you first ventured into his room. 

"We should probably stop hooking up."

His stomach drops a bit, but before immediately arguing, he asks, "Why?"

You grit your teeth hard enough for him to hear, body tense when you admit, "Because I'm… I'm getting too attached."

And, just like that, his spirits lift again. 

Burying his nose in your hair, Zeke murmurs into it, "It's alright. 'Cause so am I."

It's not just your body that he can't get enough of, and it's not the constant validation that you shower him with. Those probably have something to do with his feelings, yeah, but there's something else to it. 

Zeke really should look past it—push it all down and encourage you to move on. He knows you're not right for each other, knows that this can get messy for you, and knows that there's a good possibility that he'll end up hurting you one way or another. 

But, he also knows he's fucking smitten, and well, Zeke's always been the selfish type.


End file.
